


Carrion for Crows (Remastered)

by Alexis_Trvlyn



Series: Dissonant Verses [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: All tagged characters are POV characters, Antagonists are not necessarily villainous, Canon Divergent, Dark Fantasy, Dark Inquisition, Dark Inquisitor, E rating is for explicit violence/ dark themes/ questionable morality, Eventually a corrupt Inquisition, F/M, Non-Combatant Inquisitor, Protagonists are not necessarily virtuous, and it doesn't directly reflect the views of the author, banality of evil, each character is entitled to their opinions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:15:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27992856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alexis_Trvlyn/pseuds/Alexis_Trvlyn
Summary: Thedas had seen its fair share of troubles in this Age. The Blight. Mages and Templars. And now, a giant hole in the sky threatens to rend the world.Enter Ellana Lavellan.An outsider brought to Clan Lavellan, Ellana is knowledgeable of shemlen ways no other in her clan possessed. Desperate to prove her worth to her kin, she volunteered to spy on the human Conclave. Little did she know, her decision will thrust the fate of the world in her hand.Quite literally.Calamity calls for the hardiest souls. But what will happen when heroes fall?When the world is both the pledge and the prize the game of lies begin.
Relationships: Fen'Harel | Solas/Female Lavellan, Fen'Harel | Solas/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Dissonant Verses [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2050233
Comments: 39
Kudos: 21





	1. Enansalin'Abelas

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to give a shout-out to the people who gave their time and thoughts for this fic. 
> 
> To [Hezjena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hezjena2023/pseuds/Hezjena2023) for helping me edit my earlier works. The knowledge helped me polish my writing, something I still carry up to this day. Thank you.
> 
> To [Dore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dore_N/pseuds/Dore_N) for being an inspiration, a support and a great friend. I also wish to credit her for the beta-ing, HC-ing and lore interpretation involved in this series. You've made traipsing around Thedas extra fun!
> 
> And to those of you reading this, my sincerest thanks! I hope you enjoy the ride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1/17/2021
> 
> Update regarding the rating.
> 
> Originally this fic was rated M (mature) for dealing with serious topics and all that, but I'm keeping it safe and decided to bump it up to E (Explicit). Future chapters may linger on brutalities of war and desperation, slavery and cruelty, psychological horrors and what that entails, so please watch out for this. I cannot foresee what makes you, my dear reader, uncomfortable so kindly read this with that in mind. These are sad and difficult topics to deal with and I hope to write it with the honesty and seriousness it deserves.
> 
> If this is discomforting, there's no need to read further, and regardless, I appreciate you for giving my work a time of day :) 
> 
> With that being said, I would like to reiterate that in no way do I approve of what horrendous acts my characters do or not do. Their reaction and how they process information were researched and deliberated prior to publish. My aim is to write them as honest to their characterization and the realities of the world they live in, that is Thedas as described and built by Bioware in their written lores. 
> 
> Thank you again for reading! Leave a kudos or a comment if you've enjoyed it! It would warm my shriveled heart.
> 
> Much love,  
>  Alexis
> 
> For AO3 rating references, kindly check out this blog:  
>  https://letswritesherlock.tumblr.com/post/61136193006/but-what-do-i-rate-it

A trespasser walked into the halls.

Thick layers of dust carpeted the floor like a fresh dye of grey. Silent and still. There were no visible paw prints. No birds were perched on top of the glassless window sill. Corridors led to other lonesome corridors. Sunlight peeked through the canopy of naked beams showing the slow cascade of motes before finally landing on the ground with a soft, powdery kiss.

The stranger's steady strides were the first footprint to blemish the surface.

The Spirits' purpose though were reignited, resuscitated by each intrusive step as though it were violent palpitations. Leaden was the feeling of their waking and the Spirits sought to return to the frail comfort of their dreaming.

Awake, the Fade felt distant.

The songs of magic were stunted and discordant. The Veil choking the melody, reducing the sweetest of calls now into strained gasps and sighs.

Passing through the fabric of the Veil, the Spirits reared their presence, gliding across the varnished walls; stoneworks heaved heavy breaths, the hinges creaked and the windows blew a breezy yawn. The Spirits followed the echoes of invasive foot-fall, seeing through the paints chipped by Time with wary and weary pigmented eyes.

The stranger was solemn. His gait was reminiscent to that of a penitent pilgrim: his shoulders were slumped, his knees were scraping together, his soles were almost sliding on the mosaic floors with no pride left to lift them high.

Unheeding of the disturbance he caused or the hissing warnings carried by the wind, he continued morosely as he eyed the murals that lined his sides – gilded frames that told tales of plagues and war, of oppression and liberation, of horrors unspeakable and heroisms unprecedented.

Frescoes and friezes that depicted the rise and fall of a once mighty empire.

His petitioner’s path continued unperturbed despite the thickening pall of phantoms that pursued him at every pace. Ephemeral legions crackled and crawled out of the stone walls like the first drop of rain long carried by dark clouds bearing the thundering gallops of lightning. Shadows shaped form, Shades bloomed into color, and with lips as hollow as smoke, they spoke both in welcome and warning:

_“Atish’all vallem, Fen’Harel elathadra. Nuvenas mana helanin, dirth bellas ma.”_

The trespasser stopped short as a squadron of Spirits blocked his passage. Oddly enough, they sensed no fear nor surprise from the stranger. Instead, he raised a hand tinted by the green light of magic. Familiar magic.

With found confidence he recited: _“Ar-melana dirthavaren. Revas vir anaris.”_

The words were expected, but the voice… the voice rushed forth a cavalcade of memories.

They _knew_ the stranger.

Their collective memories recalled the young elvhen, before his many titles all but erased who he was. They remembered the first name he was called, the second he kept, and the third that heralded the end of their halcyon days.

They remembered the cocky youth, the belligerent soldier, the haughty scholar, the silver-tongued diplomat.

He Who Hunts Alone, Roamer of the Beyond, The Lord of Tricksters, Bringer of Nightmares.

_Traitor._

A child born from the harshest winter's chill not even the unforgiving heat of the sun could thaw. Under his looming shadow, even owls dare not take flight, terrified of the deep black night no flame could cast alight. When he howled under the moon, the rabbits would flee to their burrows, while the cawing ravens chased after his canter as the arrow from the hunter's bow broke uselessly against the Wolf's jaw.

And yet, the one memory that retained in their hearts was something as innocuous as the sight of his palms.

It was said you could tell a man’s worth by his hands – a farmer’s grip on his sickle, the callused skin of the mason, the arthritic bones of the baker, the exhaustion buried deep in the marrows of toiling slaves. It was his worn palms that brought them solace from their restraints. The criss-crossing lines mapped his life for them to read as blue light and simple words uplifted them from their servitude – _Ar lasa mala revas –_ and all they could think was how those delineations resembled their own.

They knew how he struggled. They knew how he suffered. They knew he was one of them.

_Kin._

And when he asked, they gave.

And when he beckoned, they came.

And when he howled his battle-cry, they howled with him – without reservation, without doubt – to death and beyond. They rallied behind the rousing defiance of a lone slave who stood against gods and overthrew an empire.

Their deliverer. Their redeemer. Their leader.

The one they chose for themselves.

_The Great Wolf._

The weight of all was on him: the fears and the failures, the successes and the prayers, the adoration and the blame.

He belonged to all but himself.

The deified everyman who ascended from the murk of humble beginnings, garbed in his mismatched plates and pauldrons. Black fur cascaded down his shoulders like a wild cape, and atop his head was the crown they bestowed upon him, an insult they turned into a symbol of honor – a symbol of hope.

And beneath the carved helm of a snarling lupine a stern voice announced:

_'None are beholden except by choice.'_

And the people answered:

_Dread Wolf lead us._

Now, dressed in rags, Elvhenan’s prodigal son returned to them once more.

The Spirits rejoiced. Wisps danced along his limbs, infused with invigorating purpose and unconditional devotion.

He smiled, “The time has come.”

The Sky shall be reunited with the Earth and in their reunion, life shall begin anew and paradise will return to the People once more.

Their long awaited victory.

 _“Fen’harel ma ghilana,”_ they chanted, their voices rising in volume as more blobs of wisps bounced behind his steps. _“Fen’harel ma ghilana…”_

The Spirits nimbly untangled themselves from the wardings, allowing him to pass unhindered. Locked doors croaked as hinges worked themselves from their stupor. Every surface shimmered as Spirits spilled from ceilings to the walls and down to the floors, growing into shadowy limbs as they joined the procession. Their voices runnelled through the corridor like a soothing susurration of streams.

They entered the last august gate of heavy stone and heavier wards. A murmur and the last ward-guardians allowed them entry into the sanctum, merging themselves with the amorphous crowd.

Inside, the rotunda was lit by the blue-blood of the Earth. It was encased in a prismatic glass enclosure that lined the walls and up to the ceiling, like rivers flowing into a grand ocean cupped invertedly at the center of the dome. Below, his hopeful eyes were entirely absorbed by the lone spherical rock suspended atop a marble pedestal.

The Orb of Destruction.

Or so it was named by those who feared the rebuttal of those they had wronged.

It was an apt name, for no true renewal would ever come before ruination.

The Wolf moved closer to the pedestal, anxious energy abound. Inactive, the orb was no more than a piece of stone, a pebble in comparison to its colossal origins. His fingers traced the swirling contours with somber reverence.

The Spirits quieted.

After a pause, they felt the air rumble about them. The blue-blood bubbled softly as the Wolf's spell tapped into them. His hands glowed green. Eddies of energy sprouted from his palms and power surged forth.

The Spirits hovered in anticipation.

But the spell sputtered and the orb remained asleep.

The Wolf tried again. The spell faltered again. And he tried again, and again, and again, each magic cast was weaker than the last.

Finally, his hands gripped the edges of the pedestal until color drained from his fingers.

"I am sorry," he said. "I am too weak. _I am sorry…"_

 _"We wait, we endure,"_ they intoned comfortingly.

They have kept vigil for ages immemorial that Time itself lost all meaning. They were the silent sentinels, the looming eternal guardians.

Waiting. Always waiting.

A choked cry emanated deep within the Wolf’s soul that the Spirits whimpered in sympathy. Unlike them, the comfort of _uthenera_ was beyond his reach. The Roamer of the Beyond could not outrun his destiny, his mistake, his regret, not when the faded past clamored for remembrance.

In the watchful eyes of the Fade, nothing was truly forgotten.

Caught by his own snare, the Dread Wolf remained captive by his calling to a dead world.

The Wolf wiped the moisture from his eyes before swallowing his pity and straightening his spine.

The mourning was yet to come.

The _dinan'shiral_ had just begun.

To remake heaven, one must pay a price.

_Vunal alin'din. Din'an alin vunem._

_One living the other's death, one dying the other's life._

And no cost was too steep to rewrite the course of their stars.

He turned and watched the Orb. After a pregnant silence, he said hollowly:

“I am sorry."

With a nod of determination, he reformed the wards and laid them into the stones, and once again, the Spirits slept and dreamt.

In those dreams the world was what it once was, eons before the War of the Thousand Suns sparked the beginning of their end.

There was a time when the Sun still roamed the Sky before the Father usurped their blistering fire and the Mother palely reflected their radiance, cloaking herself in eventide. The Forest Spirits pledged their eternal fidelity and the Earth avowed plenty.

The world was a paradise, and the People were well tended, succored and sustained. It was a time when wisdom was hearkened, justice was fairly practiced, and faith was unexploited. A time when flesh and spirit were one, and the future promised nothing but peace and abundance.

Elvhenan was then the height of empyrean glory. A land where ideas were brought into being. Molded. Refined. Mastered. Magic brought dreams into reality and only their imagination was the limit.

But that sun began to set.

The People’s dominion spread from coast to coast, across oceans, above mountains and into the Sky. Islands hung in the vaults of heaven, pouring waters from the Fade that glistened like liquified light as mana-fire bloomed all around like tiny constellations. The elvhen were clothed in garments of nebulous fabric, auroras dancing in the lightest of sighs. Legions of dragonmounts paraded in Arlathan, their riders armed and armored, bright and iridescent as the scales they sat upon, while honorable knights and loyal Wolf-guards patrolled their borders, awe-inspiring in their nobility. In prosperity, the People have built spires that reached the stars and shrines that gratified the worshippers and the worshipped alike.

The best of their dreams birthed the worst of nightmares.

And far, far down to the dirt was a bedrock of ichor and bones. The uncounted laboring bodies served as the foundations of their utopia, fulfilling the growing empire's merciless need for subservience. Bowed heads and knees. Countless faces marked with malice. Chipped nails and whipped skin, slithered with oils before the sacrificial dagger drew a collar of red across their throats, ensuring their services continued as their wards passed through the Beyond. The silent toil. The thankless sacrifices. The unwilling doing the unnecessary so the ungrateful could live sated and satisfied. They fed Elvhenan like a glutton. The world was theirs for the taking.

And they did not stop.

Their avarice turned their eyes to the Earth Children, striking at the Pillars that held the world. Far from the heart of Elvhenan, endless war raged throughout the lands. The People’s relentless pillaging sundered the Pillars. It shattered against their might and magic. Torn from the Earth's bossom, their children’s demesne was offered as tribute to the People, the price of their bitter defeat.

Blood fattened the soil. The Sky cried crimson. Red, red, red - a currency more valuable than gold.

And thus the end began.

The Plague Children came; hordes and hordes of blighted monstrosities scrambling for the warmth of the Sun that will never shine favorably upon them. The Plague Children laid waste to all they touched. Within their empty husks, they filled their hollowness with pestilence. They afflicted the horror of their creation to the living, spreading their disease until the immaculate elvhen finally learned the fatal truth of irredeemable corruption.

And yet, fools and false gods claimed the sickness as their own, fueling themselves by the blighted power.

Until the Veil laid them to rest, sealed in darkness, dreaming unending.

But in a stroke of cutting cruelty, the People’s salvation proved to be their annihilation.

The Plague was merely delayed.

Age after age, the Plague Children rose up like a tide to meet the skies. _Tear the curtains,_ they sang and pleaded in that discordant song that was beatific in its imperfection, rattling the thinning barricade in their bid to reclaim heaven. Forever yearning, year after year after year.

As if their memory drew the horror to their waking, the Plague children returned to haunt and hunt them anew.

The wards flickered and in a flash of stentorian spell the door to the sanctum was discharged by a wave of magic.

“Master,” a female spell-weaver spoke. The mana about her was lapping and eager. A dog wagging her tail. “We found it!”

A hideous creature stepped from behind her, shadowing the room as it stood towering along the arch. A host of red and black army stood at the ready at his back, the signs of the Plague were about them.

The Spirits recoiled in fear and disgust.

It was the monstrous creature that sang the loudest. Inside him a symphony ruptured with sublime terror. A choir without a conductor. Glowing red eyes traced every stone and the Spirits felt its gaze boring into them. Death imitating life. The pallid flesh stretched and grinned, and when it spoke, black-bile spilled and coated its spittle.

“Thedas will soon witness the rise of Tevinter and its new god.”

One of the monster’s red-children moved forward from the repulsive legion. He slashed his wet blade in the air, the ichor splattered along the walls and floor before he wiped them clean with a tattered banner. He snarled. “I must say, these demons sure behave with more coordination than my previous experiences.”

“They most likely belong to a higher hierarchy of spirits,” the spell-weaver concurred. “Master Erasthe-” she sought validation from the monster on the other side of her before speaking again, pulling her back straight and putting more confidence in her voice. “Erasthenes explained that spirits form their own hierarchies, I would assume that-”

The red-child spat and interrupted, “A demon’s a demon.”

The spell-weaver stiffened. An aura of ire flared about her.

Their discontent was cut by the monster’s guttural voice. “The Orb.”

“I could bind these spirits to your service, Master,” the spell-weaver daringly offered. She eyed the possessed black-children that stood in attention by the door. “Some of our Grey Warden mages might be able to handle more complex binding rituals.”

The Spirits bristled angrily. _No, no, no, no. No! We will not be bound. We only follow by choice!_

“No.” The monster intoned. “They will serve once the _somnaborium_ comes to my rightful possession,” with a flick of its elongated claws, it commanded, “Slaughter all that resist.”

The red-child chuckled, raising his sword high, he rallied. "Templars, to me."

Even against the odds, the Spirits would not flee. Never from their duty. Never.

_We are guided by purpose. We will not falter._

The Spirits burst through from all around, rushing forward with a withering wail. Steel and spirit-blade clashed. Spells rained and rumbled.

But the Fade was too _distant._

The Spirits lifted their swords, but they felt heavy. They cast with their magic, but it was waning. The Veil hampered them and yet they have fought the battle valiantly, but ultimately in futility.

Finally, they were struck down by blight and blood.

In the wake of their fall, the sanctum was pilfered clean by thieves and trespassers. In the monster's hand, vile magic covered the Orb.

And it _stirred._

Then the Spirits understood. The invasion was designed. The monsters were led here. This was no true defeat. A barter has been reached. The price must be paid. No cost was too steep.

The Wolf had shot an arrow to the sky...

Their ichor dyed the mosaic floors. A hush fell. The hall was as silent as a sepulchre.

Then, the blue-blood boiled. The rotunda shook. A lone red tear dropped from above, like a slow arrow falling, falling, falling... and the Plague grew where they fell like ruby stalagmites. Crimson haze filled their sights. Then slowly, a tinkling sound started from nowhere and everywhere at once.

The Beyond called to them and they sighed.

They could hear the song now.

It was beautiful.

_All ends are beginnings. All that was lost will be gained. Night shall turn to day and the dawn will cast the darkness at bay. All shall bear witness when he rises._

The stonewalls started to crumble. Peace settled in their hearts as the warm miasma of red and dust lulled them to their final slumber.

They all walked the _dinan'shiral._

There was only death in this journey.

_Remember us. Let our sacrifices be not for naught. Let our wishes stir the Void once more. Fulfill your oath and lead us to the new world with you. Remember. Remember. Remember..._

_"...Fen'harel ma... ghilana..."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enansalin'Abelas - Sorrowful Victory  
> Fen'harel ma ghilana - Dread Wolf guides you (in this context, i changed it to 'Dread Wolf guide/lead us')


	2. Adahlon 1

_Deshanna made a mistake._

Adahlon trudged through the cold hard muck with silent fervor. The sky was still the blackest of ink, except along the horizons in the east where it shifted to a greyer tone. The hootings of the night owl and the soft rustling of fir branches became the backdrop of his troubled thoughts. He ran a hand along his braids again, more grey locks appearing each time he saw himself through the reflection of his whetted _dar’misaan._ The hunter sat unceremoniously on moist wood, adjusting the curved sword along his belt and the cream-white longbow that slung across his body.

They were heading to the human Conclave that would start within a few weeks from now. 

As far as Adahlon was concerned, he couldn’t see how this gathering would be of benefit to Clan Lavellan. _The shems despise us. We avoid them as much as possible. What more is there to learn?_ But he was only a hunter for their clan and Deshanna was their Keeper. It was not his place to ask such questions. But, then again, he was a father too, and it was his place to worry for his only daughter.

Especially when her trial was something she hadn't prepared for.

He traced his green _vallaslin_ and prayed internally to the Huntress his facial markings symbolized. _Let my bow bend but never break. Let my string spring true. Let my arrow fly straight. Oh, Great Huntress, Andruil, guide my path and never let me waver._

Feeling slightly renewed by his prayer, Adahlon readjusted his cloak and leathers and stood from the felled wood that bore him. 

It was time to move.

Adahlon went to the sleeping Tarel first. The young man was hugging his bow while his head rested on a reclining branch, lolling at the side. Elgar’nan, the All-Father’s thorny _vallaslin_ , traced his cheeks like brambles, making the young hunter look older and harsher than his twenty years.

Adahlon had raised the young hunter ever since his parents had died during a tragic incident with _shemlen_ outlaws. The transition to his care only seemed natural, he was the clan’s Chief Hunter and Tarel was his protégée, a candidate to take his place once Falon'din guides his soul to the Beyond.

The urge to call him _da’len_ played on his tongue. But Tarel had long proven his adulthood, gaining his _vallaslin_ after downing a red deer during his Rite of Maturity. The young boy, barely fourteen then, trailed the animal alone in the forest for three days. He finally returned to their camp, tired but proud, and slung to his back was the slain proof of his success. Adahlon felt pride swell within him as if he had hunted the buck himself. The clan feasted well from his spoils and the carved antler of the deer was now embedded into his then-new bow - a symbol of his elevated status as a full-fledged hunter.

Adahlon tapped his shoulder. _"Ghi'myelan."_

 _“Hahren,”_ Tarel murmured sleepily after the third tap, blinking himself awake.

“We have to go.”

Tarel nodded once and sprung immediately. He began re-checking and preparing their packs. 

Next, Adahlon ducked in the lean-to tent where Ellana lay sleeping. Her eyelids fluttered rapidly as her head shook from side to side.

_Another bad dream?_

Adahlon remembered having to quell her recurring nightmares when she was young. Their choice of travel must have resurfaced this old terror, and yet not once had she complained when they boarded ship and sailed. Adahlon wiped the perspiration along her troubled forehead. It was so like her to bottle all her feelings in and not let others be burdened by it.

“Ellana…” Adahlon gently woke her, “Ellana?”

She gasped.

 _“Da’len_. Are you alright? We need to move.”

Her blue eyes were glazed and they widened before she wiped her face with both hands. Still heavy with sleep, Ellana’s voice sounded uncertain. “Okay.”

Dirthamen’s bluish _vallaslin_ was barely visible on her skin. " _It’s as if the gods are unsure of her,"_ Adahlon recalled Hahren Isene sniffed. He bristled then at the woman’s haughty tone. How she and Deshanna were sisters was beyond him. The two were as different as night and day. But Adahlon had to admit, Ellana’s Rite of Maturity was unusual as it was irregular. It raised many eyebrows and earned the young woman a sneer or two.

Dalish children in the cusp of their adulthood had to pass a certain test to be recognized as a grown member of a clan. A _Test of Merit,_ if you would. To a hunter, they would have to present a gift to the clan from their lone hunt; to a mage, they must display their magical feats followed by a recitation of their knowledge of their lores to the jury of clan _hahren;_ to the apprentice smith, they would forge arms or armor; and so on and so forth. When they passed, they would receive their _vallaslin,_ their blood-writing - a painful and excruciating process that would mark their passage to adulthood. The Keeper and the recipient would discuss the deities that best represent their role to their clan and to the world. Then they would be given their duties, allowed to be married and take on the responsibility in their collective survival. Without a _vallaslin,_ to a Dalish, you would always be a child.

Ellana though hadn’t yet done her Test of Merit. At the age of twenty-one - arguably the oldest in the clan to have undergone the Rite - she was just about to be tested:

Spying in this gods-forsaken _shem_ Conclave.

To be marked by the gods prior to earning it first was not a good omen. And yet, his faith dictated it was necessary. Ellana needed the gods on her side, now more than ever. Deshanna knew that. He did as well. But the nagging part of Adahlon opposed the Keeper's decision.

_Deshannna made a mistake and I was a fool to agree with her._

His growing silence must have made Ellana uneasy. She eyed him worriedly.

Adahlon mustered a small smile, "Come now." He offered her his hand and together they stood. 

Tarel handed her pack and she caught them, yawning. Tarel dismantled the little tent while Adahlon cleared the rest of the traces of their camp.

From their vantage point, Adahlon eyed the distant flatlands that made up the Fereldan Bannorn. Far, far to their right was the ghostly spine of the Frostback Mountains. He looked at the skies, still speckled by faint starlight, and he stiffened. Eight ominous lit dots shimmered brightly than the others. 

The Wolf's mocking stars marked the course of their journey. 

He reached for his talisman, a carved pendant in the image of the Old Wolf made of chalk stone. Adahlon felt for its scratched eyes and rubbed the broken nose with tree sap, sealing it with sticky resin to mislead the wily god. _May the Dread Wolf never catch our scent._

Swallowing his concern, he announced: “We will be able to make it to West Hill two days from now.”

_If we travelled double time._

They were camped along the ridges of the Fereldan Coastlands and their backs were to Highever, where their ship had docked. Jader would have been preferable, but having to deal with haughty Orlesians was far more trouble than it was worth. Being members of the ‘notorious’ Dalish elves made it even harder. Almost all _shemlen_ societies looked down upon elves, treating them as second-class citizens within their walled cities, disparaging them with names such as ‘rabbits’ and ‘knife-ears’. Fereldans at least had the decency to treat the Dalish with wary caution. Even respect.

It all started when Clan Fenelan, who were once camped to the outskirts of the Brecilian Forest, became heroes of the Fifth Blight. 

Stories of them fighting side-by-side with the Grey Wardens reached even as far as the Free Marches, carried by refugees and fleeing merchants. Clan Sabrae verified the rumors when Clan Lavellan met them briefly at the outskirts of Vimmark Mountains before they parted ways – Sabrae to Sundermount near Kirkwall and Lavellan further east, near Wycome. Clan Sabrae had fled at the earliest onset of the Blight, their hasty retreat was fueled by the corruption that reached and killed two of their young hunters. A heartfelt loss to any clan. There were so few Dalish elves left now and their numbers became fewer every Age, fading away like the ruins of their ancestry, swallowed by earth and time. 

_We are the Dalish: keepers of the lost lore, walkers of the lonely path. We are the last of the Elvhenan, and never again shall we submit._

The thought made Adahlon morose. At his periphery, he saw Ellana walk up beside him, pale and small. His worries bloomed anew.

“Are you alright?”

"You've been asking me that since we departed."

"Ellana…"

A soft sigh. “I’m fine, _ba’lin.”_

Silence.

“You shouldn’t be here. You shouldn't have volunteered." His words came out more biting than he intended, but he knew his concern trumped his better judgment. "I shouldn't have let the Keeper talk me into this."

Ellana bristled beside him. "You said it yourself, _ba'lin. I_ volunteered."

"You are not ready-"

She straightened. “I have to do my duties. _Halam’shinavas._ We all had to make sacrifices. For the clan. For all of us. That is what you taught us, remember?”

“You could have agreed to do something else. Anything else…”

 _“Ba’lin._ You know I am the best qualified for this mission. I can read and write Trade better than anyone else in the clan, speak Orlesian and –”

“I know," he gritted his teeth. 

This task seemed unnecessary to him, an irrelevant undertaking, a pointless risk. But Adahlon had enough wit not to say so and yet, Ellana's sullen frown was a sign she had sensed his sentiments regardless.

She shook her head and crossed her arms. "I have no choice. I have to do this."

“That is not true. You have a choice.”

Ellana stood her ground, firm and silent.

Adahlon furrowed his brows. Her stout-heartedness was both a source of pride and distress. She had her mother's looks, he thought, as he watched her. Those Wintersend-blue eyes and porcelain skin, her snub nose and bow lips. But her golden-white locks were her father's. Along with that immovable mulishness. Now, that was all Eldaris.

_What would you have done in my stead, old friend?_

The last time Adahlon had seen him was also the first he had met Ellana, a sleeping, scrawny kid in clothes too large for her _. “Raise her. Raise her until she can stand on her own feet._ ” He was gone before the sun had fully risen and Adahlon was left to deal with the miserable and crying child.

Being an outsider brought to the clan was difficult, and Ellana's particular quirks made it harder to endear her to the others. So did the circumstance of her birth.

The _harellan's_ daughter.

Initially, he had thought her a dullard. She had not spoken a single word for months on end and would often follow him around the camp like a lost fawn. The first few times he would leave for hunting she would be inconsolable the moment she lost sight of him, maddening the clan's elders to no end. No amount of reason, chastisement or appeasement would quell her. Then, Adahlon had tried to teach her the Way of Three Trees, to be a huntress and follow his footsteps, but to no avail. All the lessons learned would be forgotten the next day. After sometime, he grew tired of their endeavors and simply let her be. 

The other children took to calling her ‘fade-touched’ – with a derogatory name like that, it hardly made her any friends. Even the adults picked up the ridiculing, much to his consternation. And yet, he never heard one complaint from her. With pursed lips, she bore the injustice just shy of martyrdom. The insults finally stopped – no thanks on his part, shamed as he was to admit – her tormentors simply grew tired by the lack of rewarding response that eventually they left her alone. The apathy was merciful in comparison. 

Fortunately, her knowledge of reading and counting in Trade gave her a much needed sense of purpose within their community and slowly enough, some of their clanmates warmed to her. Due to assisting the Master Craftsman in keeping shop, his wife, the herbalist, had taught her a thing or two about foraging and mixing medicinal concoctions in return. Her positive appraisal of Ellana's abilities was something he would be forever grateful for. Finding her place in the clan, Ellana began to come out of her shell.

He recalled whenever he was back from a hunt, he would see her sitting at the same spot of the aravel from where he had left her, chin cradled between her hands, waiting like a sentinel. Then, the sight of him would light up her face, and often a mingling of joy and relief were there. Adahlon endeavored to bring her small gifts: a flower, a pebble, ingredients for her dabbling and dried branches he could weave into a bracelet for her, little trinkets that she could use or would amuse her. 

Days turned to weeks, months to years, and without him noticing, her expectant, welcoming face was something he had started to look forward to at the end of the day.

It slowly dawned on him then that he was now a father.

It also occurred to him now how terrible of a failure he was at that.

She huffed. _"Ba'lin,_ has anyone ever told you that you worry too much?" Ellana grinned at him, displaying the little gap between her front teeth. 

Shaken from his reverie, he looked at her flatly. "Apparently I would have to be, considering I have to accommodate both of us."

"Mhmm," amusement never left her face as she nodded sagely. "Spoken like a true worry-wart."

A loud voice interrupted them. "Hey, foot-sore! Head's up."

Adahlon and Ellana turned. He saw a glimpse of red heading towards them before Ellana clumsily caught it.

"Tae! You idiot! You almost hit me on the head."

Tarel munched on an apple, grinning. "But I didn't, did I?" 

"No thanks to your aiming abilities."

Tarel jutted his chin. "So you say, squiggly-feet."

Ellana rolled her eyes. "Not everyone has soles made of hooves."

“Not everyone has soles as delicate as halla cheese.”

“Hey, you - Ow, ow, ow!” She hopped as a sharp twig got stuck on her footwrap.

Adahlon’s lips started to twitch and Tarel had both hands on his stomach, aching in laughter.

“Oh, for crying out loud. It’s not funny, you dork!”

“I beg to disagree,” Tarel playfully teased her further. “You should have seen - Hey! Stop throwing twigs at me, I didn’t make you step on them!”

“No one said you should laugh about it!”

Their little horseplay chased the last greys of twilight and their mirthful laughters greeted the rising sun. The eight ominous stars were dimming against lightened skies, disappearing totally. In that moment, Adahlon believed the gods were with them and his worries were nothing more than crickets in the night. 

***

Their trek began in good spirits. They had been travelling as long as there was light. Lunch was quick. Dinner and short sleep were the only stop they made. Initially, they stuck close to the Imperial Highway and it took them four days to reach the Hinterlands. Soft soil made way for hard rocks, and no sooner than three days did they reach the foot of the Frostback Mountains. 

As they neared their destination, their pace turned brisk. Varying groups of travellers were sighted frequently the closer they got to Haven. The three kept their distance from the populated track - the nearer they trailed the entourage, the more careful they were to remain inconspicuous. Other than the perils of exposure, thieves and thugs would undoubtedly be attracted to such a crowd, and with the looming threat of winter, the danger of hunger made the desperate even bolder.

That night, they huddled behind an outcropping of a huge rock. The mountain breeze carried the tension and murmurings and they remained downwind of the group they were trailing, a good position for listening in and avoiding being listened to. Adahlon carefully selected dry kindling to ensure that their campfire would produce less smoke. The possible advent of a Mage-Templar War had everyone on the edges. It has been the Fereldan concern as of late now that the Crown had given asylum to the Rebel Mages and allowed them to settle in the Arling of Redcliffe. 

Ellana stepped out of the thicket clothed in a roughspun dress that reached below her knees, covering the breeches tucked neatly inside a pair of ram-skin boots. She completed her look with a woolen hood and leather mittens. A light dab of chalk-paste completely hid her _vallaslin_ and she added a tint of rouge across her lips and cheeks. 

Smiling, she asked: “Well, what do you think?”

She looked inseparable to their kin who grew up in the cities, Adahlon noted. “Finely done. Am I right, Tarel?”

Tarel’s eyes grew like saucers.

Ellana grinned. “What? Cat got your tongue, Tae?”

The young hunter spluttered. His face was beet red. Adahlon let out a deep laugh.

 _“Mythal’enaste!”_ Tarel squeaked. “I’d rather listen to the _shems.”_

“Don’t go too far,” Adahlon reminded him in amusement.

Tarel let out a whine. He stood abruptly and glanced at Ellana once before dashing off, shaking his head as he did so.

Adahlon winked at Ellana and it made her cheeks pinker.

“Tae was just being weird.” But her words lacked her usual bite. She slumped beside him near the fire.

“You underestimate your qualities, _da’len._ Now, if only Tarel would simply tell you instead of making himself a nuisance.”

“Huh?”

Adahlon shrugged. It was not his secret to tell. He moved closer to her and dabbed some of the colored paint off of her face. 

“It won’t do to attract… too much attention.”

She sighed. “I’ll be fine, _ba’lin.”_

He wanted to say more, but he kept his thoughts to himself. It won’t do to encumber her with his fears and doubts. She needed him to believe in herself, and he will, in a frail hope that belief alone would keep her safe for whatever was to come. Instead, all Adahlon did was ruffle her hair affectionately. “I know.”

“Hey! You’re just ruining everything now,” she chuckled.

“I have something for you.” He rummaged through his pack and pulled an item tightly wrapped in oiled cloth. “Here. I was supposed to give this to you after your rite.”

“What is it?”

He handed the gift to her. Her face glowed with excitement and unpacked it hurriedly.

It was a dagger. The hilt was made of ironbark of the finest quality; inlaid with leaf-like design made of halla horn similar to its sheath. Near the pommel was a circular motif encrusted by a single crystalized lyrium. He watched Ellana unsheathe it and tested its weight. Its blade was almost as long as her forearm and looked like ordinary iron except when it caught light, then it gleamed in an array of colors, patterned to form bands. 

His eyes were intent on the gleaming dagger. Taking himself to a different time, a different hand wrapped around its hilt.

“I’ve never seen anything like this from Ivun’s forge," Ellana said.

“It is an intermix of iron and pyrophite – an uncommon metal found in the Dales. It belonged to your father. Your grandfather had this made especially for him.”

“This was Da's?”

“Yes. He was supposed to receive this after his rite, but… well…”

They both fell silent. 

Finally, he saw her sheathed the blade gently, almost reverently. 

“What was he like before?” She murmured.

“Stubborn. Impulsive. A whole lot of trouble."

A small smile. "That sounds familiar." 

They both chuckled softly.

Silence.

 _“Ba’lin…_ do you think the clan will ever take him back?”

A beat passed.

“I don’t know, _da'len_.”

Ellana pursed her lips.

Adahlon took a twig and fed the flames. “Perhaps, in time. It is not easy for the clan to… accept what his actions had wrought.”

“You mean his _betrayal."_

“Ellana...”

She looked away. 

The logs crackled.

“Ellana. _El-lla-na.”_ He rolled the syllables testily. “Do you know what your name means?” She didn't turn, but the rigidity of her posture made him aware she was listening. “Your father told me he wanted to name you after the wisest Keeper in the history of clan Lavellan, your great-great aunt, in fact, but your mother… She had a different idea. She grew up Orlesian, as you know, and she insisted on a name that represented them both. Hence, _Ellana._ ‘The light of their life’ your father had told me, while in Elvish it means, ‘someone who can do anything.’"

A pair of moistened eyes looked back at him.

 _“Da’len_ … Your father made unfortunate decisions over the years. You may forsake his actions, but he always knew where his heart was and has always strived to do right by it. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.” 

_"Ba'lin…"_

Adahlon reached out and squeezed her hand comfortingly. “They love you fiercely. As do I.”

Ellana opened her lips to say more, but a soft rustle alerted them to the dark. Adahlon quickly reached for his bow and nocked an arrow, while Ellana recovered her hands to her dagger. The familiar figure of Tarel came forward and they both sagged in relief that turned to annoyance.

“What?” the young hunter asked, dumbfounded.

Ellana and Adahlon shared a look. The moment had passed.

“Nothing... I’ll take first watch,” she said and turned quickly, wiping her face with her sleeves.

Adahlon nodded and dampened the fire. 

But before she left, she turned to him once more. _"Ba'lin,_ when we return… when we have the time, will you tell me more about Da?"

How long he had waited for her to ask that. Adahlon smiled. "Of course, _da'len_."

Her smile finally reached her eyes.

***

Morning came uneventfully and the travellers they trailed began moving again. The three shadowed behind. The air was crisper, the chill harsher. Trees became scarce and snow started to creep as the incline became steeper and steeper. 

Ellana would have to leave on her own, ingratiate herself with the group of travelers before they reach Haven. It would be harder for him and Tarel to follow her by then, conspicuous as they were with their bright _vallaslin_. They could always cake themselves with white paste too, but then again it would make them stand out just as much, which defeats the entire purpose. 

Haven was now in sight, colored by tents and braziers even from a great distance.

They hid behind an outcropping, observing the herd coming and going along the dirt road. Sentries were now rounding along the lines, men and women in matching sets of leather and metal armors.

Once she enters Haven, Ellana would be alone for the first time in years. 

Adahlon eyed Ellana, his worried frown never wavering. “It’s a short trip now.”

“Yes,” she breathed.

He watched quietly as she stooped to pick up her knapsack, but Adahlon stopped her with a hand on her forearm. He noticed they were shaking.

She looked white, but she still managed a wobbly smile. "Cold, is all."

His grip tightened. "Be careful, _da'len."_

"I will," she swallowed. “I’ll be fine, _ba’lin_.”

"Remember to step first on the ball of your feet, then slowly lay the outer side of your heel when you sneak," Tarel advised. "Oh, and don't touch any glowy things!"

She rolled her eyes at the last one. She tapped Tarel in thanks and with a sharp inhale, announced. “Alright. Let’s do it.”

“ _Da’len_.”

Ellana halted.

“Ellana, promise me that you will not do anything rash.” Ellana was about to say something but Adahlon stopped her with a look. “I know the clan was not the home your father had envisioned for you but know this: you are my daughter now, too. You belong there as much as any of them. We are your family. You need not prove yourself.”

She was too stunned to respond.

“The old man’s right and… oh, _Mythal ma halani_ , don’t cry!” Tarel tried to quietly console her.

“I… am not… crying.”

“Right, you just so happened to have water leaking out of your eyes.” 

Ellana smothered a sob and a laugh.

Tarel gave her a tight hug, and Adahlon saw the look of fear on his face only to be replaced with a confident smile when they parted. “See you around, squiggly-feet”

“Enjoy sitting on the snow, toad-face.”

Adahlon untied the leather of the talisman from his neck. "Here, take this."

_"Ba'lin?"_

He made her turn-around, giving her the necklace and securing the end of the strings into a knot. "It has protected me for years now. Now, it's its turn to protect you."

Ellana looked at the pendant gratefully and nodded. 

Adahlon kissed her forehead, exactly where her _vallaslin_ marked the skull of the raven. "Dirthamen hide you from peril."

The three of them shared the familial moment with quiet affection.

 _"Ba'lin,_ Tae…" she exhaled then beamed. "I will see you both soon." And with that she left.

Adahlon and Tarel saw her off until the thick canopy of pine and evergreen closed in on her like a final curtain. 

They did all that they could. It was up to the gods now. 

_Creators, guide her path._

But the prayer was drowned by the loud beating of his heart. Adahlon looked back to the sea of crowd that would soon drag her to their whims and tide. All his fears and doubts sank like a rock. _This was a mistake. I shouldn't have let this happen. I shouldn't have let her go._ But it was too late to turn back now. He only hoped his worries were unfounded.

_Tread carefully, Ellana. May the Dread Wolf never hear your steps._

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ghi'myelan - hunter  
> Ba'lin - uncle  
> Halam'shivanas - sweet sacrifice of duty  
> Mythal'enaste - Mythal's blessings  
> Mythal ma halani - Mythal help me
> 
> All elvhen are either sourced from canon or Fenxshiral


	3. Ellana 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year! Happy new chapter xD 
> 
> A monster chapter too, to compensate. And if anyone is asking, I am so in love with the origins stories for each Grey Wardens in DAO. It has always been my goal to replicate the same feeling here in my work. 
> 
> For old readers, a lot of this chapter is a near replica of my now-old-and-deleted version of Carrion, so if scenes are familiar, that's why.
> 
> And a nugget of Easter Egg, you can find the other would-be Inkies around.
> 
> Thank you again for reading <3

Haven was a circus.

Activity surged left and right. Myriads of people arrived at every hour, stopping by momentarily for a short rest, populating the town until it was close to bursting. Nobles and their servants, pilgrims and purveyors, templars and mages, merchants, mercenaries and soldiers, scholars and historians – all awaited the conclusion to the most pressing issue of this Age:

The Divine Conclave.

Ellana could see them talk animatedly amongst themselves as they boarded their horses and carriages straight to the Temple of Sacred Ashes. They were to bear witness as history unfolded with their own eyes.

If only she could find a way to follow them.

_Whatever information Deshanna wanted me to know, it’s got to be there._

Ellana eyed the entourage until it disappeared past the first gate along the Pilgrim’s Path that wound higher up the mountain range. She picked up her pail filled with lake water and began walking to the opposite trail back up the knoll.

Haven was situated on top of an elevated terrain with a small Chantry upon its wintry crown – a simple Fereldan architecture of stone and wood. Hovels of timber scattered along its descent, while the tavern and several of the merchants’ tents were all found on the lower level near its gate. The village was like a dark mole against the pristine white of the Frostback. The snow had long melted amidst the rampaging feet, revealing the deep brown dirt beneath. Outside its town walls were the smithy and several more pavilions occupied by varying factions:

Loyalist Templars, those who still remained with the Chantry despite the dissolution of the Nevarran Accord; The Templar Defectors, knights who followed the Lord Seeker Lucius; the former Circle Mages led by the once Grand Enchanter Fiona. In-between their camps, and tasked with keeping the peace, were the hired mercenaries and the Fereldan Crown’s men. Her knowledge of their banners and insignias have been useful in identifying them amidst the bouquet. Looks like Hahren Isene was wrong, those times she immersed herself with _shemlen_ books proved to have been invaluable.

As soon as she reached the gate, a robust woman waved and headed her way. “Ellana!”

“Beth! Needed some air?” Ellana quipped as the older woman took one of the pails from her. She smelt of smoke, sweat and roast.

Beth was Flissa’s helper in the tavern and one the first people who had been welcoming to her when she had first arrived as a stranger asking for work. They were initially wary of her, thinking she was one of those penniless pilgrims reliant on constant charity. But she was persuasive and the need for an extra hand outweighed the doubts. _No one ever turned down free labor._ Slowly, she had earned their trust and her keep.

Beth huffed. “Aye, tavern’s been full and we are only a few. You can barely wipe the spill on the table before a new customer starts bellowing at ye ears,” she rolled her eyes. “Anyway, ain’t that the reason why I’m here. D’you remember Fanny? One of Threnn’s people?”

Ellana tried to conjure a face to the name. She did recall the red-haired, skinny elven messenger with the high-pitched voice. “A runner, right? The squeaky one?”

“Wouldn’t go so far as to call the girl squeaky. Doe’s got a nervous tick, what she to do?”

“Right. I think I know who you mean.”

They were now at the kitchens and Beth began pouring the water on the boiling kettle. The warm stove fire was a welcome relief from the chill. “Anyway, Threnn’s been havin’ the worst day. Fanny got a bad case of sniffies, couldn’t work.”

“Is she alright?”

“Eh, nothing a rest and a bowl of elfroot can’t handle, but that means less people for the Quartermaster. D’you mind fillin’ in for her? Threnn pays more than gruel and a roof.” Beth proceeded then to offer her a small bowl of said gruel.

Ellana warmed her hands with it, taking a spoonful and blowing it before eating. In-between mouthfuls and swallowing, she spoke. “No one’s lining up for the job?”

“Lining up to be shat at by everyone? A penny a run didn’t seem worth it to most. I’m not sure whether I’m doin’ ye a favor.”

Ellana let out an undignified snort and finished her bowl clean, washing it by the snow and drying it near the fire.

"Wouldn't me leaving strain you and Flissa?"

"Hah! They can scream or scram all they want, if the food ain't cooked, it ain't cooked. Ain't no one gonna do about it. 'Sides, I know you need real coin, with your da being sick and all."

The little lie she gave made her squirm. Ellana equally felt guilty and grateful for her generosity. 

The job was a good excuse to get around Haven though. While staying and working at the Singing Maiden was generally pleasant especially with Maryden's nightly performance, there was only so much drunken murmurs could tell her.

_Perhaps, I could even learn something important from a missive or two._

Ellana drank her fill of weak ale first, “So, where’s Threnn?”

“Ye takin’ it?”

“You mean I get to choose between being shat at or being groped up?” Ellana raised both palms up as if weighing the decision, and shrugged. “Tongues can only waggle.”

Beth let out a croaky laugh. “More fingers are lost in the tavern than from frostbite, I say. Well, Threnn’s in a small tent near the Chantry, she knows how to take care of her people. Just tell her I sent ye.”

"I will."

Ellana sighed as she trekked the dirt track that led to the topmost hill where the Haven Chantry was located. She could hear the faint, solemn choir as they sang the Chant for noon. It was a pretty sound, and Ellana hummed along as she hopped over puddles and horse dung. As far as she was concerned, spying was a bit dull. Well, it was better this way. At least, boredom wasn't lethal.

_Ba'lin sure got his braids all tangled for nothing. As usual._

The thought made her smile. It had been three days since she was left on her own and she had truly missed their company. She looked up to the sky. Its forecast was fair, but the biting chill of autumn was relentless. Playing on her talisman, her eyes flicked to the untamed wilds beyond Haven.

 _I wonder how they are. I hope they are not too cold._ She pressed her hands under her armpits and her breath fogged. _I can’t wait for this Conclave to be over and done with. Then we can all go home._

Ellana looked forward to eating _brandh_ again, or taste the tangy saltness of halla cheese, drink her fill of the minty-sweetness of distilled prophet's laurel and even the pungent fermented rashvine sap. During a good hunting season, there was also roasted venison lathered in herbs and ironbark syrup coupled with assorted foraged fruits and nuts.

_Ahhh, I’m hungry again._

She most certainly couldn’t wait to get herself out of Ferelden bland porridge and grey stew.

She saw Threnn, or rather the trail of runners that came and went, and helpfully pointed her out from the crowd. She was a tall, sturdy woman with a veteran soldier’s look, standing straight with her feet apart as she listened in and dictated instructions to her scribe. The orange band emblazoned with the eye-and-sunburst insignia marked her association with the Chantry loyalists.

“Quartermaster Threnn?” Ellana greeted as she approached her tent.

“Yes, what is it?” she said without looking up as she flipped through the ledgers and reports that lay in an organized mess across the table.

“Beth told me you were in need of more people?”

That arrested her attention. Or a second of it, more like. Threnn glanced at her from head to toe in quick succession, then nodded. “You can pick up the parcel over there.” She pointed over a leather bag that sat atop a barrel. “Yellow wax is for the Crown. Red for the Chantry. Blue for templars. Purple for the mages. And the plain ones are for the mercenaries. Oh, and don’t bother talking to the bureaucrats or the high-hats, just head straight to the cooks. These are all provisions. Come back here when you're done. Jim!”

“Yes, ser?” An uncertain looking man piped up.

“Give her an overview of the campsite.”

“I am already familiar with the place,” Ellana said.

Threnn raised her brow. “That’s so? Anyway, give her a band. Wouldn’t want you to be mistaken for just anybody. Somebody gives you a problem, come to me. I don’t tolerate back talks.”

Jim handed her the same orange band they all wore and helpfully tied it around her arm. Ellana hefted up the leather bag and went on her way. _Well, that was fast._ Checking what was inside, she counted the letters based on color and decided to deal with the Chantry-related letters first, considering it was the closest.

The kitchen and bakehouse were built with sturdy stone like that of the sanctuary proper. Smoke billowed at an opening on the roof and the flagrant smell of fresh bread assaulted her senses. Ellana's mouth started to water. She had not eaten anything more tasteful than dried parchment for days, no offense to Beth or Flissa. It was just how it was, considering she couldn’t pay for a decent living in Haven.

As she entered the premises, there were several novices in the kitchen with their backs bent to their tasks. There was the constant noise of scurrying feet and Ellana tip-toed to find the person in-charge. Right then, an elderly brother broke from the bustle and watched the workers with sharp, critical eyes, muttering idle thoughts underneath his breath.

Ellana tentatively went to him, "Hello? Are you the Chantry cellarer?"

The kindly looking old man greeted her with a nod, patting his wet hands on his apron as he assessed her with squinted eyes. "Yes, dear child. How may I assist you?"

She rummaged through the pack, "I have a missive... from the Quartermaster?"

"Ah, dear me, dear me. Let me see that..." Ellana handed them over and he waddled with his bow legs towards the window. He must have noticed her eyeing the fresh baked goods for he pointed to them and said. "Have a bread."

They were recently vacated from the oven, stacked in several baskets and they filled the long kitchen table. Ellana’s stomach grumbled. She quickly took one before the brother decided to change his mind. Ellana reveled at the crisp surface and the pillow-soft insides as she broke them, inhaling the sweet scent of roasted ham being cooked in the spit as she imagined dipping the bread into the sauce. Mouth still full, she murmured happily, "sch-ank yo-w," before swallowing.

“The Maker rewards the generous,” was his distracted reply.

Briefly, she wondered if she ought to wait for further instructions or to leave and deliver the rest of the missives. _I should have asked how I’m supposed to be doing this job._ Great. She glanced at the brother before deciding to leave, but then she noticed he turned the parchment the wrong side over, his old eyes straining over the words. She looked around, but everyone was preoccupied with their duties to pay the old man’s struggles any mind.

Feeling for him, she offered, "Excuse me, do you need help?"

The cellarer looked up to her, blinking. “Pardon?”

“I can read over for you,” she muttered sheepishly, “...that is, if you need me to?”

The surprise turned to well-meaning amusement. "Why, I think I do need the help, dear child." He handed the parchment back to her, his eyes watchful and shining with curiosity.

Ellana cleared her throat and began deciphering the cursive hand-writing. It was mostly logistics for food and other bare necessities. It would seem the Chantry and the Crown had jointly agreed to finance the Conclave. Which was interesting. If she did not know better, Ellana was certain that the headquarters of the Chantry was at the Grand Cathedral in Val Royeaux, you would think most forces and servants would be employed from Orlais.

_Perhaps, it's different up in the Temple._

Orlais was the capital of the faith, but Ferelden was the origin of the holy prophet. There was certainly a tug-of-war.

Not to mention their shared brutal history.

She recited what was on the list and the cellarer began listening and mentally accounting for the Chantry’s supply. He would ask Ellana to check and compare over the ledger his sub-cellarer had filed. He made her jot down notes and correction for certain unavailable resources to be re-acquired and even had her sum up the finances.

The other novices gave them some curious glances from time to time. It was a quick work for the both of them, and Ellana stretched to relieve her back after huddling over the uncomfortable stool. She probably stayed longer than she ought to, and the bag of letters was straining across her shoulder from being ignored longer than it was probably supposed to. But then, she couldn't possibly leave the brother alone unaided. When they were done, he looked at her oddly.

“Forgive my prying, but I am curious. Where have you learned to be this proficient?”

Ellana blushed slightly from the praise. “I learned how to read well from the Chantry, brother.”

His moistened eyes crinkled as he smiled. "A learned child is a blessing to their parents and to the Maker. I am glad my brothers and sisters had not forgotten that."

Ellana returned his smile. She didn’t have the heart to tell him that she only managed to listen in unnoticed, tucked in some corner like a rodent while the noble children sat bored and uninterested.

The truth was Da had taught her simple things like recognizing her name and puzzling the alphabet, the rest she learned mimicking what she had heard in the lectures in Chantry schools and repeating them over and over again as she skipped under the shadows of the streets in Markham, drawing the words on walls with charcoal or dirt.

Education was not meant for the low-lifes, street rats and knife-ears. It was a crime for the likes of them to dare aspire above the gutters. Had she been found, she would have probably received a beating.

Her earlier days spent with the caravaneers had been good for her arithmetic. It was the dwarven merchants and alchemists who she had to thank for that. She used to cling to the rattling wooden abacus like how a young girl she once saw in the city clung to her pretty dolls.

Knowledge had been illuminating, but with her eyes open, the world looked harsher under its light.

Even at a young age, she knew how to count the silvers and bronzes on Da’s leather pouch. She could tell how many days they would have food and how many days they would starve. When the silvers started disappearing, his quiver started to fill up, and when they were full, she knew he would leave again; only to come back with more bruises and silvers. He never showed her he was hurt, but she knew. She could feel him wince whenever she clung to him in welcome.

Oh, how she _hated_ it when he left.

Being cared for by indifferent people who often tried to swindle the last remaining money Da left for her. To ensure he stayed, Ellana learned to be cunning: how to stretch the silvers and bronzes, finding clever ways to extend their worth; how to take some from unwary purses, to run and disappear if suspected. 

When her efforts failed, as it eventually would, she would bury the arrows around the Alienage, but Da had a knack for finding them. He never got mad with her for all these and she never apologized for it.

Da would smile reassuringly then, promising her everything would be alright, that he would come back and then he would buy her new clothes, a new toy or that pastry she had been salivating for weeks.

In the end, he never kept any of his promises.

“What are you doing here, elf. Shouldn’t you be running messages?”

Ellana turned to find a lanky brother eyeing her with daggers as he stood at the doorsill. _Whoops, looks like I worn out my welcome._ She got up the stool and began readjusting the bag. She smiled briefly to the cellarer and began to depart, the other missives must be delivered post-haste after all, and considering the amount of time she must have spent here she should probably be on top of it. But before she could scurry off, the older brother chimed:

“Why, she was helping me sort out the supplies. If you had seen to your duties, Brother Edwin, I would never have bothered the young lady.” The cellarer pointed to the open ledger atop the table. Ellana blushed slightly after being referred to as a _‘lady’._

Edwin, who Ellana now believed to be the sub-cellarer, became flustered. “I-I’ve been busy with… things, Brother Willard. Let me go over it again. The elf may have missed something.”

“Or you can make use of good time by ensuring we never run out of flour for the baker,” the old cellarer replied, handing him a stack of letters. “Hurry along now, lad. Hungry, idle soldiers spell trouble. Have our requests be approved by the financier immediately.”

"Shouldn't this be relegated to the elf?"

"Oh, I'm certain the young lady is busy with things," Brother Willard retorted.

Brother Edwin now looked like a tomato and he sputtered.

Ellana was touched by the cellarer’s well-meaning defense for her dignity and all that, but she knew getting attention wasn’t good for the likes of her. Before anyone could react, she gave a small curtsey and fled, stretching the gap between herself and the Chantry as fast as her short legs could take her.

In the safety of a certain distance, she reviewed the remaining letters when she heard a shout: “Oy, elf!”

_Oh, shit._

She turned as the sub-cellarer stomped down the knoll. “Follow me,” he said without preamble and began dragging her by the elbows, hard enough that she could feel his fingers even through the thick cloth. Out in the village gate was a cart pulled by two aging grey mules. He shoved a folded parchment to her and pointed at the several barrels at the side. “Get them up the wagon and deliver this to the kitchens in the Temple of Sacred Ashes."

“Brother?” the man loading the wagon said, confused.

“Hush, peasant, and get a move on.”

The man looked at them both, decided neither of them was worth the trouble, shrugged and left.

The road was winding and treacherous, and Ellana had never ridden a wagon before. “I-I don’t think I’m the right person for this. I can ask -”

“I don’t think that would pose a problem, considering you like to stick your nose in where it doesn’t belong,” Edwin said. “Well, what are you waiting for? Chop-chop lass.”

Ellana eyed the cart, then the barrel and back to the cart again. Edwin was watching her. _Sadistic creep._ She tried to move one, but that proved to be impossible for her strength and size. There were bystanders watching them now, but no one was coming to her rescue. No one would stick their necks out for a _knife-ear._ Ellana felt she was about to cry - both from frustration and embarrassment. Edwin was now smirking. There were some murmurs around her, but Ellana paid them no mind, her thought focused on finding a way to load the godsdamn barrels.

“Need help?”

Ellana looked up and saw a giant woman, grey skin and horned. _A qunari?_ She blinked and the other cocked her head to the side. She was wearing a green coat with steel paddings. _A mercenary, perhaps._ In her whole life, Ellana hadn’t encountered a qunari before and she certainly didn’t expect to see one here in Ferelden, so far out of the sea the kingdom was after all.

“Stay out of this, oxman!” Edwin bellowed.

The qunari raised a brow. She was at least a head taller than the brother, if not more, and Ellana could see him tremble slightly from her presence. The woman’s yellow eyes assessed her, the cart, the barrels, and back to the quivering brother. Slowly, she went to one of the keg, hefted them up and with grace that belied her size, she stacked it neatly at the back of the wagon. She returned to get one again, and again. Ellana tensed, eyeing the crowd as the rest stopped and gawked, watching the brewing affair unfold.

Edwin protested weakly, “O-Oy! You shouldn’t interfere here, this is Chantry-”

The qunari pointedly ignored him. People began whispering and Edwin was becoming more and more flustered. And pride can make people do stupid things. He stepped forward, “I said-”

The qunari’s eyes glowered. Baring her teeth, she snarled: _“Scat!”_

Edwin backpedaled and lost his footing, landing with his bum directly on the muddied ground. There was an escaped snicker from the crowd, and soon after an avalanche of laughter followed. The brother gracelessly stood up and patted the mud all over his red-and-white clothing. He glared around him before huffing, stomping all the way back to Haven. Ellana couldn’t help but chuckle and the qunari woman laughed along with her.

“Thank you. I would have been stuck here forever if not for you,” Ellana bowed her head gratefully.

“Don’t mention it.” The qunari said, scratching her hair sheepishly. Ellana noticed her horns were broken. “I really hate browbeaters.”

Ellana nodded sympathetically, eyeing the place the brother had left. _What a skunk._ But he had done her a favor without knowing it. She thanked the helpful qunari once more as they separated, and Ellana led the mules up to Threnn.

Threnn gave her and the wagon a once over. “What in the Maker’s name do you have there?”

Ellana shrugged, “Some Chantry brother told me to get this up the Temple. Thought you should know.”

“I swear, those celibates think we are under their beck and call,” Threnn grumbled. “We really don’t have extra hands to take those.”

“Ah, well, I thought I’d handle it, but well...” she pointed at the bag on her shoulder apologetically.

Threnn waved a hand to say, _it’s no big deal._ “You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I doubt it’ll take you too long,” Threnn said slowly. “Come back here after for your pay, you still did the job. Oh, and carry this extra fur along, weather's foul the higher the incline. Watch out for the sleet.”

“Sorry,” Ellana said as she handed the leather bag back as Threnn gave her a ram-skin coat.

“Hardly your fault. Jim can handle this. Right, Jim?” The Quartermaster raised the missive-filled bag.

“Ehh?” Jim whined.

Ellana hurriedly boarded the carriage and prodded on. He saw Jim be saddled with two heavy leather bags as he grumbled on his way, kicking the snow along his tracks. _Poor man._

The way to the Temple was a cleared but totally frozen dirt track. Loyalist Templars patrolled the path, along with hired mercenaries and the Crown’s men. There were checkpoints in every stone bridge she had crossed. Handing them the letter provided to her cleared her quickly.

The Temple of Sacred Ashes sat like a crown above the frigid slopes of the Frostback Mountain. It was made of timber and stone, like all Fereldan architecture, but unlike the Haven Chantry, it has a notable wider base with small windows of colored glass patterned in yellows and reds that shone from the soft warmth of candlelight within. The building was sturdy and proud, built to last. The size was comparable to most castles she had seen and probably just as large – if not larger – than the entirety of Haven. She reached the Temple’s gates with little fanfare.

_Finally, I'm here._

“Halt,” Two Loyalist Templars came forward. “State your business.”

Ellana gave the parchment and said. “Wine, ser. From the Haven Chantry.”

The Templar folded the parchment and gave it back. He motioned for her to go right, leading to an arched partition. There were cartloads of oxen, deer and boar meat being washed near a well. Barrels were rolled. Fruits and vegetables carried around in baskets. Ellana led the carriage along as she headed to the outer kitchen where there was a flurry of servants that moved with exacting precision. Their superior training was evident in contrast to the barely organized rabble of those in Haven.

A haughty man with a tasteless side burn approached her. He wore an all-white clothing with matching white hat and apron. A head chef, perhaps?

_“Qu'est-ce que cela veut dire?!”_

_An Orlesian, great._ “Wine, ser. From the Haven Chantry?”

The man let out the most theatrical snort Ellana had ever witnessed. He waved her around while flurrying a string of Orlesian-babble. Ellana tried to give him the parchment and finally succeeded, but the man merely glanced, crumpled and threw it. He began ordering men to take down the barrels and pushed Ellana aside.

But she couldn’t be bothered by all the rudeness as her heart felt elated. She couldn't believe it. She was in!

She immediately took note of her surroundings. The flurry of activities could mask her movements. This was her chance. She needed to move fast.

She saw a trail of well-dressed elven servants entering through the kitchen proper. Ellana followed suit. The pretty girls in clean cotton striped gown and apron hurriedly took serving trays. Ellana followed them until a slap of a feather duster stopped her.

_“Toi!”_

Startled, Ellana turned towards the voice. A plump woman who wore the same white cotton gown pushed a broom and a dust pan in her hand.

 _“Rends-toi utile et nettoie la cave, lapin!”_ She pointed her towards the opposite direction.

Ellana played along, bowing her head demurely. _"Oui, madame."_

The way was headed to the cellar. She pretended to clean for a minute or two until she was sure that no one was looking for her. Slowly, she crept out and headed towards the passageway. There were two obvious directions: the one that led to the outer kitchen and the other deeper to the temple. She chose the latter.

The temple was a labyrinth.

She wandered from room to room, her heart thumping loudly at every step. If she was found, she had no excuse and no one to save her. Adahlon’s fears reverberated in her mind. Her hand found the dagger hidden along her thigh. She exhaled a steady breath. _I can do this._

_I have to._

There was soft murmuring to her right. Ellana stilled. Her breathing slowed as she strained for the source of the sound. A muffled moan followed by a soft _shh._ Someone giggled. Ellana’s head swiveled towards the shadowed alcove. She pressed herself against the corner and narrowed her eyes. In the dim light, her elven sight saw the silhouette of two lovers.

“I really want to feel your body against mine,” Ellana heard the man whisper. A light and loose drawl. Free Marcher? The girl let out a strained giggle. “I want to see you. All of you,” he continued, his voice dropping lower. Sloppy sound followed.

 _Oh, gods._ There was only one path, and this pair of heated twats were blocking it. Ellana was almost embarrassed for them. If they were trying to make it a secret, they were doing a terrible job at it. There was a rustling sound followed by a popping one, like a button being pried open. Then, there were squishy sounds echoing in the long hall.

The girl sighed, “Wait, oh…Wait. Mmmmph. Hah, ah…I – ah, I know a place.”

“Truly, my dove?” the man replied.

Ellana rolled her eyes.

The girl was totally buying it. Her thick Orlesian accent wrapped at every word. “Oh, yes… mmhmm… I know my way around here, _monsieur_. Follow me.”

In her corner, Ellana saw the two eloped in the same direction as her destination. Ellana desperately hoped they would find a room this time. As soon as they left, she started to move as well. The changes in the interior slowly became apparent as she moved forward. The walls were no longer plain stone, instead they were made of fine redwood. The hallways were wide with wooden carvings at every few feet depicting growling mabaris and Fereldan floras. Banners hung around the oak beams and side tables filled with delicate vases. The floor was now carpeted and everything within was themed with red, white and gold. Chantry colors.

The Temple of Sacred Ashes was not just a place of prayer, it was a castle fit for the richest noble.

Unassuming in her corner, she observed servants moving to and fro. Everyone was so busy that they ignored the poor cleaner with a broom. She heard a ruckus from what she recognized as the main hall. There were several doors that connected to it, swinging with the number of well-dressed people coming in and out. There were people in long fancy robes, unarmed knights, dwarven merchants waving their thick hands filled with glimmering rings and the Chantry officials with tall hats, garbed in red, white and gold. There was music and a long table abundant with food, but none of the guests seemed to be paying it any mind. They all seemed to be busy talking and arguing. It was impossible to hear from her side and her unkempt condition would make her conspicuous against such a crowd.

Before she left, her eyes met with a lone dwarf, oddly secluded in a corner, a glaring tattoo was drawn on his right cheek. The hair on her back stood up and Ellana turned around and headed further down the halls instead. Surreptitiously, she tried all the doors along the hallway. Most of them were locked.

Except one.

She entered quietly only to find herself face-to-face once more with the lustful paramours. Well, face to butt really. And they were really going at it. Ellana felt her ears reddened. _That didn’t take them long._ She hurried out but stopped short of the door. Clothes lay crumpled beside the waist-high wardrobe. There were silk brocade tunic, cotton pants and a handkerchief with an _‘M. Trevelyan’_ embroidered on its corner. Beside the pile was a pair of boots and shoes then a clean white cotton striped gown.

 _Wait_.

A clean white cotton striped gown.

A devious smile spread to her lips.

Gown in tow, she left as quietly as she came. Safely in the shadows, she put the gown on. She wiped the grime off of her face and re-applied the face powder she kept with her. She found a mannequin geared with a polished steel plate and she patted herself in the reflection. _Passable._ She stuffed her old clothes inside the hollows of the metal armor.

With her broom and dustpan in tow, Ellana headed out to the hallway once more. _Chin up, walk purposefully,_ and the guards paid her no mind. Never mind that she has no idea where she was now or where she was going. Ellana wondered briefly if it would be dumb to ask for directions. _Obviously._

“Who’s there?”

Ellana’s heart almost jumped out of her throat. A guard just crossed a corner she just passed. The scaled mail marked him as one of the Crown’s.

_Oh, shit._

She squeaked, “I-It’s me.”

The guard eyed her and the area warily. “What are you doing here? This part of the Temple is off limits.”

Ellana swallowed. “Umm…I was, uh, c-cleaning?” She waved her broom for emphasis.

Silence.

“Who’s your housekeeper, girl.”

 _Shit._ “My h-housekeeper?”

The guard took a careful step forward. Hand poised casually on the hilt of his sword.

_Oh, shit! SHIT!_

Ellana threw the dustpan and broom then bolted. She heard the guard shout behind her. But he was in heavy armor and she in light clothing. And boy, could she sprint.

She ran and ran and ran.

She could hear nothing but the fear pounding in her heart. Quickly and without breaking her momentum, she ripped the corner of her gown to allow her bigger steps. She slid and swiveled until all she could see was the possibility of escape in her narrow focus.

She heard the familiar music of the main hall trickling and panicked. More people meant more guards. _Shit!_ She spun to the nearest corner. The tell-tale sound of clanking armor could still be heard and another loud stomping sound came at the end of the hall. _Oh, gods! Help me!_ She rounded another corner, then another and another, no longer paying any mind to where she was, or how lost she was, so long as they would not find her.

At her last turn, she froze.

It was just another hall. But it felt... different.

Menacing.

The hair on her skin began to stand.

The loud clunk of steel and barking mabaris jolted her. She swallowed her dread and jumped forward.

It was as if entering a spider's den.

There was a feeling of invisible cobwebs draping all over her body, never mind she was wearing clothes. Everything felt heavy, like the place seemed to dissuade her from moving. It felt like forever as she swam inside some kind of unseen gelatinous thing. _I… I can't… breathe..._ She waved her arm around to the empty ominous air. With fear hounding in her veins, she found the strength to press on. Luckily, the moment passed and she fell forward like one would when you missed a step.

Patting her knees hurriedly, she immediately pushed herself up, and with a loud inhale, she ran once more without looking back.

Fortunately for her, the temple was a large and complex structure. She rounded another corner before pressing her back against the wall. She eyed the aisle she passed warily. It was silent. She watched for a few moments, letting the stone carry any echo of movement. There was none.

Ellana slumped against the wall, relieved.

After spending a minute to catch her breath she stood up, bare feet and in a tattered dress. It didn't matter. She just needed to move forward. It was truly unfortunate that this side of the temple had no windows. It would have been easier to simply jump outside and be lost in the woods. Of course, she’d probably die of cold then. Lovely.

The hallway she was now in was bare and cavernous. It was pretty simple, no doors or any corners to turn to. Unlike the rest of the place, the area looked plain and desolate. And very, very cold. All the braziers were unlit. She crossed her arms to herself to contain all the heat to her body and still she shivered. It was eerily quiet. Unnaturally, so. Not even a draft of wind or the soft tinkle of music that seemed to permeate other parts of the temple. Ellana kept moving forward, ears still straining for any sound.

There were only her footsteps.

All those rush and tension exhausted her and each step made her legs shake. She was lost, hungry and scared.

A light persistent tap on her thigh startled her.

She hitched the gown and found her dagger vibrating. The force of it made her entire left leg tremble. What made it odd was that it wasn't just any random shaking, but rhythmic. Curious, she placed the dagger on the floor. It skipped with unnatural consistency. The lyrium from the enchantment was glowing like a cat's eye in the dark. She pulled it back to inspect it further and it was then she felt an electric current run from the tips of her fingers and running all the way back to her spine. There was a subtle energy, strong enough she could feel it!

And it felt like pulling.

Against her better judgment she followed it until she was face-to-face with a huge double-door at the end of the hall. She laid her ears flat and listened. Predictably, it was deathly quiet, but the nearer she was the intense the vibration became. She looked back to the empty hallway then back at the door.

_Maybe this is what Deshanna is looking for?_

_It could be dangerous._ That…sounded like Adahlon. Of course, her voice of reason would sound like him. Figures. She stuck an ear to the door. There was no sound. Nothing.

 _There is no activity on the other side_ , she argued back to her head.

 _That doesn’t mean there are no people, dangerous people, inside_ , the voice retorted.

She could be very, very quiet.

_And if it’s some sort of dangerous magic?_

Tarel’s simple wisdom echoed: _Don’t touch any glowy things!_

Ellana had made up her mind. She didn’t intend to go back to Deshanna with her tail tucked and empty-handed. It was now or never. She tightened her grip on her dagger and pushed the wooden door open.

And froze.

Her voice of reason was right. There were people on the other side.

Terrible people.

She was stunned and startled. In a haze of fear, she heard herself say, “What’s going on here?”

Then there was shouting and her world was filled with green light. Pain seared to her left hand. She screamed and in a blink of an eye, it was gone. She crashed onto a rocky surface; mist swarmed her that smelled strangely of roasted meat. It made her feel hungry. But the smoke started to thicken and it made her cough. She covered her mouth with her arms.

_Where am I?_

Something glowed at the distance.

There were sounds all around her. A loud crash, like stormy waves. She felt the familiar pounding fueled by fear. She climbed and climbed and climbed, until a golden hand reached out to her and pulled her up. It was warm and felt like relief.

The last she remembered were white lights and a loud sound like something large was being ripped.

She felt fear so strong it blotted everything away.

_Of what? Of what? What was it?_

Like a fevered dream, she forgot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Fenxshiral for the dalish culinary references
> 
> Special thanks to Dore_N & Mariel91 for the mini-French lesson!


	4. Cullen 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: graphic depiction of gory stuff
> 
> Special thanks to Dore for beta-ing this chapter!
> 
> Thank ya'll for reading <3

“A survivor, here! There is a survivor here!”

The twisting sculptures of agony wracked through Cullen's heart as he pushed through the dust, smoke and acrid heat that assaulted him.

The Temple of Sacred Ashes was in ruins.

There were piles of rubble and corpses littered around like a mélange of misery. If he looked up, he could see the arched gate of the courtyard still standing – the sole landmark that informed them where they were. A grave marker. White powder dropped from the sky and he wondered whether they were snow or ash.

They were still far from the source of the explosion, but beyond where they were, nothing much could be made out of the Miasma that enclosed the entire skeletal remains of the temple. None of their forces could penetrate the dark magic that seemed to belch from the center of the ruins. Furthermore, random tears would vomit hordes and hordes of demons that made any attempt perilous. They skirted around the edges, hoping against all hope they would find any survivors of the vicious aftermath.

Another holy place desecrated by magic.

The goal of the Divine Conclave was peace. He saw first-hand the horrors when the hatred between mages and templars was allowed to scale to its conclusion. Innocent people died. Torn from limb to limb by either steel or magic. Dead bodies on the streets: men, women and children. He thought he saw the worst of it. He thought that what had happened in Kirkwall would not happen again, that Thedas had finally learned from that brutal lesson. For once in his life, he finally thought through the grace of the now-late Divine Justinia peace would be achievable.

Then the green light obliterated everything.

He remembered the ground shook. There was a kind of stillness in the air before a powerful force siphoned everything to its center and imploded, leaving a caustic shroud of magic in its wake. Afterwards, everything was just… _gone._

Lives… dreams… hopes…

 _Faith_.

He tightened the damp cloth that covered his nose and mouth. Still, the thick smog made his exposed skin sizzle and his eyes water. He tapped the scout’s shoulder in acknowledgement. “Good work, Pellane,” came his muffled voice, and then he motioned for the other soldiers to come and bring in the stretcher.

Cullen looked at the survivor.

It looked to be a man, but he couldn’t be sure. The skin was burnt so badly, they shriveled, forming angry crags of red and black. He could see textures of melted clothing or metals embedded themselves across the surface of skin. Cullen couldn’t help but reel back in horror. The soldiers lifted the survivor up and laid them carefully down. The victim made a pitiful moan, groaning and shaking as their touch, gentle as they could be, must have been agonizing. The yellow pus bled through the linen. They lifted the stretcher and the survivor wheezed at each step, the movement jostling their abused body as the soldiers rushed back to camp.

Cullen looked away.

Sweeping his arms in a curve, he ordered the others: “Search further!”

“Can’t, Knight-Commander,” Pellane answered. “The fumes…” he coughed.

Beyond them, the Miasma grew thick as a dark cloud. No visibility still. Bolts of green lightning flashed intermittently. His exposed skin started to prickle painfully in time with each rumble. Magic leaked everywhere and it reacted randomly to any contact - be it air, skin or mortar. The tears across the Veil had made the area unpredictable and extremely dangerous.

_Damn it!_

A low moaning sound bubbled through from across the grey curtain. Cullen felt his entire body tremble. A sharp cry followed by a desperate wail. Then there was another one, and then another, ascending and quivering into a chorus of torment.

_People. There are still people on the other side._

“W-What do we do, Knight-Commander?” Pellane looked up to him, fearful and unsure.

The prickling on his skin became keening, like being punctured by needles then consequently dabbed with acid. The Miasma was worsening. Its tendrils were slowly expanding, drawing its smoky limbs closer and closer to their position. The soldiers started to back-track. Cullen found he had no more reserves left to dispel the foul magic. If they didn't move soon, their lives would be swallowed by the smog as well.

Cullen’s chest crumpled and his fists clenched. “...Retreat.”

“Commander…”

Some of the soldiers looked ready to disobey, compassion swaying them to place their lives on the line - to try, even in futility.

_No. No more lives should be put at stake by questionable decisions._

Cullen gritted his teeth. “Retreat. That’s an order.”

He looked around the knights and soldiers. Lines streaked down their dirtied cheeks. Their faces were snuffed of faith and hope, but they saluted just the same, and with silent cries of their own, they turned their backs, forsaking the suffering to their painful fates.

The walk back to camp was heavy.

Despite the distance they gained, Cullen could still hear the cry echo deep inside the cavity of his ribs.

And it crushed him.

He felt weak.

When he accepted Cassandra’s offer and sailed with her back to his homeland, this was not the reception he was expecting.

Being back in Ferelden was difficult. He did not like the man he had been when he left. He did not like to think of the dark thoughts he nurtured as Kirkwall welcomed him with open arms. He did not like to think how _righteous_ it felt when he saw that the Gallows was nothing like Kinloch Hold. Anger had blinded him for a long time. Anger and faith.

_No, not faith. Cowardice._

He had fled Ferelden after the ruin of Kinloch Hold. He had fled the Free Marches after the ruin of the Kirkwall Gallows. Fleeing was what he was good at. He turned a blind eye when Alrik abused his wards. He justified Meredith’s cruelty as upholding the dogma of the Chantry. He thought the mages deserved no mercy, that they were not people, that it was the Maker’s will they suffer. It wasn’t until he faced the extremity of his own wishes being fulfilled that it made him realize it was wrong. That _he_ had been wrong.

_Maker, how can I ever find reconciliation from this?_

After what happened in Kirkwall, Cassandra had given him a new purpose. A new thread of hope to latch on to. He did not deserve it, but that didn't stop him from taking the opportunity nonetheless. They needed someone who could sanction a semblance of order for what the Divine had planned, and he was only too grateful that they were willing to give a washed-out templar-knight like him a chance. And deep inside, he wanted to help – he needed to feel he _helped._ Serving others was the reason he had joined the Order in the first place. He had failed several times over, he knew. But this time, it would be different. This time, he would do it right.

Mid-way through their descent, he looked back at the temple. It was now merely a smoke in the distance. Cullen clenched his fists.

Disaster seemed to follow him, but this time, he wouldn’t run. This was the end of the world as they knew it. The Golden City was stripped bare and this time he would be staring at the abyss with eyes wide open. _The righteous stands before the darkness, and the Maker shall guide their hand._ And this time, he will not blink nor falter _._

When they reached the camp situated at the valley of the mountain, Cullen met with Cassandra’s team that was preparing for their ascent for another round of search and rescue. They were far too few to his taste.

He began without preamble: “We should rally all the remaining templars. We need the Miasma dispelled now.”

“We’ve been going back-and-forth since morning. Most of our templar-knights are exhausted,” Cassandra said, arms in the pommel of her sword. The unblinking eye of the Seeker insignia was embossed on her chestplate - ever watchful - while hers drooped slightly, whether from despair or from exhaustion he couldn't be sure. “Our lyrium reserves are running dry as well.”

“But we need to get to the other side, quickly!”

She sighed. “I know, Cullen. We simply do not have the means to do so.”

“The enchanters! Surely they-”

“Are all assigned in the healing tents.”

Cullen ground his teeth. A lot of the populace had fled at the onset of the explosion, both from Lucius’ side and Fiona’s. Even the Fereldan soldiers were sent away to prepare to defend their holdings. Shame flooded him. The templars were meant to be protectors, shielding innocents from the calamity, uphold and reinforce order. _And they were the first to run from the danger._ How far the Order has fallen.

“I will continue to search for survivors,” Cassandra announced. Cullen nodded. Cassandra’s Seeker abilities did not rely on lyrium.

He strode to her side, “I’ll come with you.”

“No, Cullen. Rest. You are no good to us drained and fatigued.”

“There is no point in resting either.”

Cassandra looked at him hard.

Cullen was aware he was being difficult. “...Yes, you are right," he finally relented. "I will regroup with you shortly. I just… I need to… Maker's breath," he grunted and ran a hand through his hair. "I need a moment to get my bearings."

“I know,” Cassandra clasped his shoulder. “I have faith in you.”

 _How can you still have faith?_ He wanted to ask. But the question died on his tongue. Cullen found he didn’t want to know her answer, or rather he feared Cassandra only obliges him in charity. It was parasitic, but he latched on to her belief - true or not - unable to summon an ounce of it within himself.

Cullen swallowed, and with resignation, he pulled the words out of his gullet. “...Maker be with you.”

Cassandra’s brown eyes softened, “...And to you as well.” Another strong clasp of camaraderie and she was gone.

Cullen trudged to his tent. He sat unceremoniously on the cot and cradled his face with his palms. He wanted to weep. But his eyes were dry and irritated, and no matter how much emotion he heaved, the tears would not come.

He was the highest-ranking templar official now. _Knight-Commander Cullen Stanton Rutherford._ Mia would have been proud. She would think he had 'made it'.

_What a grand way I had earned it too._

Maker, he hadn’t yet replied to her last letter. To be honest, he didn't know what exactly to tell her. He was no longer the little brother she remembered. _Will I see her again? And Branson and Rosalie?_ Last he heard his brother was expecting his first child, a son. His nephew. Cullen chuckled, he was an uncle now, somehow he couldn't wrap his thoughts around the idea. Rosalie would probably spoil the little runt. She had always bemoaned not having a younger sibling to follow after her. Cullen rolled on his hand the coin his brother had given him when he left to join the Order. It was a proud moment for all of them.

_Will they be able to bear to look at me once they know what I have done?_

Mopping around helped no one. Cullen decided to visit the healer’s tents. Even from the distance, the overpowering smell of embrium and spindleweed bloomed on his nostrils. He moved the tent flap aside and was greeted by rows and rows of cot and haystacks filled with almost blackened silhouettes of people. More bodies were covered in linen than not. Magic sputtered in the corner of his eye, as one enchanter eased the whimpering victim. _Maker…_ Cullen found he couldn’t look at any of them. For a populated space, it was eerily quiet. Just the sound of rasped breathing, the comforting hushes, a prayer and the sound of feet on hardened soil.

One of the surgeons stepped back. Cullen grabbed her sleeve like a child would, “…How are they?”

Her posture alone told him all that he needed to know. They expect no survivors.

Cullen only nodded, and left.

Alone, in his tent, his open pack revealed a wooden case. Inside were his lyrium philter and an empty vial. He took it out and saw a drop of blue liquid still flowing thinly inside.

“...I should have taken it.” His fists clenched around the glass so hard it started to crack. "Maker damn me, I should have taken it!"

_One life. I could have traded it for one more life._

***

Resting did not ease Cullen. He fidgeted at the cot he sat on. He did not like being idle. He did not like being _helpless._

At his periphery, he saw a hunched figure heading towards them. A wanderer in rough tunic and green vest, huddling along with a dried branch for a walking stick. He pulled his hood down, revealing a fair, bald head and pointed ears. Cullen thought he looked younger than he had expected. The elven man looked up at the menacing sky, his brows furrowed.

"It will only continue to grow."

Cullen sprung up. He strode briskly, and with plate armor drenched in gore, he knew he was a terrifying sight. The terror that drove him forward could not be quelled as the stranger's simple statement voiced his worst fear.

"What did you say?" he demanded.

The man was taller than he first presumed, Cullen could see despite him trying to make himself look small. The stranger looked at him serenely. Instead of answering, he stated. "I would like to help."

Something about the stranger did not sit right with him. He unsheathed his blade and snarled. "Who are you?"

Several armed knights began to pool around them, tired, terrified and angry. Agents stood ready and alert. Cullen could see Leliana was watching beneath her hood, as she leaned at the table in her tent with the splayed map now worn with desperation. The elf had caught the attention of all.

If he felt fear, he hid it well.

"What do you know of the…" Cullen stopped. He had a hard time naming the catastrophic tear in the Veil that threatened to end their world. Other than what it obviously was: " _The Breach…_ Speak quickly now!"

The elven man glanced at the soldiers about him. It was difficult to make sense of him. An outlaw would have focused on weighing their armaments and see if he could outrun them. A mage would linger at the blazing eye or the flaming sword relief on their chest plates. A common man would have bowed and stuttered at their obvious display of force and authority. Instead, the elf looked at them straight in the eyes and assessed them like a lieutenant would to his subordinates. There was something positively queer about him, something he could sense, but not quite place.

The elven man's voice chased his thoughts away. Silky and soothing. “The Breach is a tear to the world of spirits. And with every passing moment, it will continue to consume.”

“How are we going to stop it?” Leliana spoke, moving forward and out of her tent, standing side by side now with Cullen.

The mage responded immediately, “I presume the solution will come to us as soon as we investigate the source. Most magical phenomena have catalysts. This is no exemption.”

Cullen's hackles were raised. He had an inkling of what was to come next, but the question still needed to be asked. "And how do you know so much about it?"

"I am a mage."

Which was neither an answer nor an explanation.

He snarled, "Bold of you to come to us and admit that."

The elf was unfazed. "I only wish to offer my assistance."

Cullen passed Leliana a look, _a likely story,_ it said.

The elf caught the exchange. "Surely you would not reject aid simply by the hand that offers it?"

Cullen was short on patience. "And what help would that be, apostate?"

"I know of magic far beyond the experience of any Circle Mage," the mage supplied readily. Cullen couldn't shake the feeling his answers were staged.

"Like blood magic," he countered, accusatory. "We ought to restrain him."

The remaining templar knights began to move at his periphery. He saw the elf’s eyes flit subtly and Cullen knew then he would not go down without a fight. Still, the mage's posture remained loose.

"Let us hear what he has to say," Leliana interrupted.

Anger ignited inside of him and Cullen snapped, "You are taking major risks-"

Leliana turned to him sharply. "He is but a lone mage in a camp full of templars."

Cullen scowled. It took one mage to overrun Kinloch Hold and turned everyone into Abominations. It took one mage to destroy Kirkwall’s Chantry and it started the bloody war. It could only take _one_ mage to kill them all. Magic had caused this calamity. And at this point, any mage was a potential suspect.

His anger turned molten, dripping at every syllable. “You can’t be that naive, Leliana.”

Leliana’s eyes flashed dangerously, but Cullen was furious and he did not care for her indignation. Their life mattered more than her outrage.

It was Leliana’s agent, Charter, who finally intervened: “He hasn't done anything yet," the elven woman shrugged.

"Reassuring," the apostate interjected.

Cullen snorted, but he noticed the tension did dissipate. Slightly. "We don't even know if what he has is useful.”

"Not if we talk amongst ourselves and not let the mage speak, no?" Leliana did not wait for his response this time and proceeded to address the apostate. "Your name?"

"Solas."

Leliana had her arms behind her back, hard eyes peeked through the shadow of her cowl. “We accept your help, Solas.” Cullen snorted and the elf bowed his head slightly in acknowledgement. “However, we would request you to surrender your staff and submit yourself to our supervision. After everything that has happened, you must understand our precaution.”

Cullen watched the elven mage’s reaction. He was deathly quiet. For a moment, Cullen thought he would refuse and when the mage moved, his hands quickly closed in on the pommel of his sword. But he merely offered his staff and his wrists to be manacled - enchanted bindings that neutralizes a mage's ability to draw magic from the Fade. Leliana secured them herself.

“This is only temporary,” she said.

The mage eyed the deceptively plain iron bindings on his arms. “Perhaps, I could accompany you to your next excursion to the temple.”

“What do you expect to find?”

“Magic of this magnitude is seldom done by a lone spellcaster. A ritual and an artifact would most certainly be involved. An evidence or two would surely linger. A residue. Anything that would aid us in identifying its cause, and hopefully, would lead us to its solution.”

Leliana eyed Cullen this time for concordance. Fully aware it was her way of easing through their earlier disagreement, Cullen gave a small smile and nodded his assent.

“Very well,” Leliana gave a signal to Charter.

The elven agent motioned for others to rally with her.

They would fan the ruins in multitude of teams, advancing slowly at the demon infested area and regain every brick and every ground, set up their camp intermittently until they reached the source of the explosion. A simple enough plan on paper. Execution was an entirely different matter.

At the seclusion of her tent, Leliana said. “Is Cassandra back?”

“No, Nightingale,” Charter replied.

“We must move regardless, every minute we waste the demons gain more footing,” Cullen added, checking and securing the buckles of his sword belt. He secured several arrows in his own quiver, angling the shortbow on his body until the weight becomes comfortable.

“Agreed,” Leliana nodded. "Arrange to have this message delivered to her when she returns."

Charter took the missive then left.

Several ensembles were led independently by Cullen, Leliana and other higher-ranking remaining templar-knights, ensuring there was someone in each squadron to dissipate the Miasma. Independently, each group would barrel through the bulk of demons along the main route. A cell of scouts led by Charter and other agents of Leliana’s diverted through the mountain path on both sides of the ruins.

As the team assembled, Cullen approached the Left Hand, murmuring, "I do not trust the apostate, Leliana."

“That’s why I’m leaving him to you,” she said, counting her arrows.

“Do you think we are being hasty?”

She paused momentarily and exhaled, picking up her bow and quiver, she continued. “The risk is necessary. To wait and doubt is as fatal as any mistake. This is beyond anything we have ever encountered."

"Beyond even the Blight?"

"Archdemons can be killed. I’ve seen one die. We couldn't possibly stab the skies, no?"

 _Fair enough._ Cullen tried for levity. “How about a trebuchet?”

Leliana smiled wanly, “Hold on to it, Commander. If this does not work, you may have a chance to try that.” She patted herself and sighed. Leliana had always been beautiful with her rosy skin and fiery-hair, but now she looked dim and lifeless, her vibrancy seemingly buried by snow and ash. "But the mage had a point, didn’t he? We all know our histories. No lone mage could have done this.”

Both of them looked up to the churning maw of the abyss.

Wistfully, Leliana recounted the stories, “It took the Magisters Sidereal innumerable crates of lyrium and slaves to invade the Golden City and gave us the Blight. Whoever was behind the Breach, they did not do it alone."

“They were only tales,” _Weren’t they?_ But Cullen wasn’t so sure anymore.

“And yet the skies are torn.”

Cullen found he had no intelligent response to that.

“...Maker save us.”

“No, Cullen," she raised her eyes defiantly towards the heavens, "We save ourselves.”

***

Cullen could no longer recall how many times he had trekked these slopes, but every time he returned the landscape seemed to shift and evolve. None of his earlier landmarks remained recognizable. He rubbed both his gloved hands. It was growing colder. It would seem the Breach also affected the weather about them, turning the cold autumn air to an almost frigid winter.

“The Miasma… it is clearing,” The templar knight, Belinda, noted.

“The Fade matter starts to ossify when it is exposed to the immutable properties beyond the Veil,” the mage spoke up, volunteering unasked information. “Gaseous form requires a great amount of magic to maintain. Outside of the Fade where mana is scarce, it quickly exhausts its resources, as a result it solidifies. It is its way to adapt to the nature of its new environment. The same phenomena can be observed when casting a barrier. Under the direction of a mage, magic simulates the properties around it, coating the castee with magic thinner than cloth, but harder than any steel.”

Belinda furrowed her brows, looking uneasy. “I wouldn’t know.”

“Ah, you have never fought side-by-side with a mage before.”

 _Nor against them,_ Cullen thought. Belinda Darrow was a newly initiated recruit from Starkhaven. Such ill-luck to be inducted in the Order, only for it collapse consequently after a short period of time.

“You mean, this,” the soldier tapped the protruding stalagmite. A sturdy looking rock that looked like it has been with the mountain since forever. “...could suddenly combust?”

“Potentially. Would you like to see?” he raised his manacled hand.

The soldier snorted. “Nice try, mage.”

Belinda pushed down the cloth on her face and sniffed, "It smells like…"

 _Cadaverine_.

The rocks did not look like just a rock anymore. It was fibrous, with green lines trailing the surface like arteries. Then the knight and the soldier looked at one another, their eyes widened.

_Bones._

Belinda tried to cover the gagging sound she made, while the others looked drained of blood. The mage however moved forward resolutely. Cullen looked at the blackened protrusions.

_This is literally a graveyard._

“You are very articulate,” Cullen doubled his stride and eyed the mage sideways. _Too well-spoken, in fact._ It was the kind of observation he expected from a Senior Enchanter, no less. He had been stationed in two different Circles. Not all mages he had talked with could discuss the machinations of magic as clearly as he did. In fact, half of them were even surprised to see fire igniting from their own hands.

The mage chuckled. As if reading his thoughts, he replied, "I have learned much of the Fade in my travels. Pampered scholars are not the sole purveyors of knowledge."

"You admit that you consort with demons."

"All mages dream, and in the Fade one encounters spirits. I am not unique in that regard."

"But only a few awaken with such fluency in understanding magic."

The mage eyed him, lifting his chin up. "If such thought helps clarify the mystery for you Commander, by all means."

"Have a care with your tone, mage."

"Offense is often taken rather than given," he said coolly, and then he stopped and looked contemplative. "Apologies, if I have crossed the line."

He did not look apologetic.

Before Cullen could retort, bright green light sputtered ahead of them. Another tear. “Demons!” He readied his sword and shield. The others did the same.

Shades grew in shadows and immediately lunged forward. _Predictable._ Cullen side-stepped quickly and swung his blade, cutting off its head from its ephemeral spine.

The soldier and the knight made quick work of the wraiths, while the novice Belinda struggled with a larger Shade that overwhelmed her in size. Cullen ran to assist her and together, they overpowered the Shade. He looked around his squadron, taking account of everyone when suddenly he realized one was missing from the group.

_The apostate!_

Cullen whirled to see how the mage fared. Most of them relied on their magic for combat and were vulnerable without it. He looked for him amidst the chaos of the battlefield.

Right then, he saw another Greater Shade rushing towards the mage. The elf was armed with nothing more than a splintered wood no longer than an ordinary dirk. _Maker’s breath!_ Cullen ran as hard as he could, but he was too far and the demon was getting nearer and nearer. Cullen held his breath as he saw the demon drive its arm down for a lethal slash. The mage stepped forward, meeting the blow.

_Run, you fool!_

The mage thrust the wood up through the hollows of the demon’s limbs in expert timing, countering the attack using the demon’s own momentum and impaling it with its own strength. The Shade squirmed in pain before dissipating into black goo. The mage stepped back, not a speck of dirt or ichor on his clothes, or strain in his posture. He looked back to Cullen, cold-eyes like a winter storm.

Cullen instinctively looked at the manacles on his wrists. The lyrium-infused runes glimmered. The enchantment still worked.

The mage dropped the wood soundlessly onto the blanket of snow, the demon’s blood a black ink against white. 

“A short sword, perhaps?” Cullen offered.

“That would be appreciated.”

Cullen motioned for one of the soldiers to hand him an extra armament. He checked the blade, satisfied, he motioned it for the mage to take. The mage grasped the sheath, but Cullen did not let go. Not yet.

“You are well-trained for a wandering apostate.”

“Thank you.”

“It wasn’t a compliment.”

The mage assessed him. A ghost of amusement flashed on his face. “I am not one of your Circle mages.” _You cannot threaten me,_ was what left unsaid.

Cullen studied his visage. Plain, except with random smattering of freckles. “Neither are you Dalish.”

A light snort. “No.”

“You are not making this easier for yourself.”

“And you seem to confuse your priorities. You worry about one man while the fate of the world hangs in the balance.”

“I found it only takes one man to burn the world.”

There was a flicker of emotion in the mage’s eyes, but it disappeared just as quickly. “Your suspicion is noted, Commander, but I am afraid the Breach is not courteous. Shall we?” He punctuated his word with a light but insistent tug.

Cullen let go of the sword.

He watched the mage test its weight. He refrained from buckling the leather belt and opted to hold the sword in his hand. Cullen did not lose sight of him as they ascended _._

***

“There’s just no end to this,” Belinda huffed as another tear threatened to appear.

Onslaught of demons had slowed their climb. They have had so many encounters now, Cullen had lost count of them.

“More Rifts will appear the closer we get to the source,” the mage said, wiping the build up of ichor on his borrowed blade.

They were back to the courtyard again, this time though the Miasma had almost faded. Instead, craggy pillars grew like massive fangs on the floor. The same greenish pulsing of the Rift flashed within its marrows. _The belly of the beast._ Cullen looked around if the other group had made it in time with them, but thus far, it would appear they were the first to step foot into the temple proper.

"Let's search the area," Cullen ordered. "But don't stray too far ahead." _We never know when and where another Rift will appear._

A murmur of agreement followed.

They moved warily, eyes and ears strained for any anomaly. Suddenly, a thundercloud of smoke erupted between their group. Cullen pushed one troop away from it, but too late, a Terror demon grasped his heel and carried him upwards.

The soldier screamed.

Cullen thrust his sword forward, impaling it at the demon's knee. It shrieked and waved its captive, throwing him high and straight into a wall so forcefully Cullen wasn't sure if it were bricks or bones he heard cracked. The weak wall crumbled on impact, burying the soldier in a mountain of debris. _No!_ Cullen tried summoning his templar ability, smiting the bastard back to the Void it belonged to, but his Will wavered and nothing became of his intent.

_Void and damnation!_

Terror shrieked and Cullen felt fear wash over him. Still, he managed to block its next attack and parried with the edge of his shield. It stunned the vile creature, enough that Cullen managed to drive through a lethal blow.

But his victory was short lived.

More and more Rifts appeared, surrounding them in every corner.

"Perhaps, now would be a good time to release me from these bindings!" the mage shouted from behind him. He had just downed two demons.

"You would like that, wouldn't you?"

 _"Fenedhis._ You need help!"

Cullen gritted his teeth. "Everyone, to me!" His surviving team huddled together, shield raised high in defensive position.

"The others are coming, I am sure of it," the knight gulped, voice trembling, when he reached Cullen's side.

"A-Any time now would be good," Belinda stammered.

Cullen eyed the bubbling stew of greenish magic as demons on the other side of the Veil prepared themselves for their ambush. "Steady now…"

“There! An opening!” the mage pointed at something Cullen didn't catch. He broke free from their formation.

“Mage! Wait!”

But the elven man sprinted, diving at the slit of a passage in-between Rifts before the cloud of magic hid him from view. _Damn, that bastard!_

“Belinda!” Cullen barked, pointing at the Rift slowly forming at the air above them.

The templar recruit looked terrified beyond her wits, but to her credit, she hung on to her sword. Closing her eyes, Cullen knew she was reciting a prayer. _Culling spells required faith. Faith in the Maker and faith in your abilities,_ Cullen had recalled his trainer once taught him. Eddies of her Will cascaded at the edges of her armor and into her armament, and with a scream of conviction she stabbed the ground with all her might, purging the Rifts around them.

Wind gushed as the area cleared, like a breeze in a glade within a thick forest. They breathed collectively.

_That should be enough for now._

“Great work, templar,” Cullen clasped her shoulder.

A small victorious smile tugged her lips.

“Over here!” Cullen heard the knight calling out through an archway. Cullen ran to him. As he neared, he saw a large tree of light suspended in what appeared to be a former great hall. The entire place was leveled. Black and sharp bone-rocks covered the entire place. _This is where the explosion originated._ He looked down and found the mage had already navigated the area, investigating each broken nook and cranny.

_Damnable man jumped straight to the Void and still lived._

“Find anything?” Cullen addressed the elf below. The mage didn’t seem to have heard him, his eyes were frantically searching for something. Irritably, Cullen shouted. “Mage!”

He glanced up.

“Did you find anything?”

The mage frowned, he looked angry. “No. Nothing.”

That was disappointing.

Without warning, bright light engulfed their sight. Cullen covered his eyes. A sharp piercing sound stabbed him in the temples and he curled down in pain. It was as if thunder blasted right at his ear. When the ringing stopped, he heard the others gasp.

One of them breathed, "Sweet Andraste…"

Cullen had not seen anything other than a shapeless light before it flashed and disappeared, leaving one lone survivor amidst the ruin. He looked intently and saw the silhouette…

_Of a woman?_

She was trying to get up, green light flashed around her like lightning. Smoke lingered around her body. Their eyes met: he saw her pupils roll up and she collapsed.

_Did she just… come out of a Rift?_

Cullen was alarmed. The last time someone traversed to the Fade and returned they had brought the Blight.

The mage ran to the woman, twisting her prone body face up. He studied her, checking for wounds methodically: the head, her pulse and whether blood had pooled around and under her. His gaze was roving in what Cullen would describe as a kind of panicked desperation.

Cullen clambered down and ran towards them. He noticed she was an elf, young and wearing a servant's attire. _She looks no older than Rosalie._

A soft, greenish glow caught their attention. It seemed to run across her body, needle-like worms of green flashing and disappearing in the beat of a pulse, but mostly it concentrated itself at the palm of her left hand. The mage lifted the limb and the moment his fingers touched them the magic crackled, releasing another thunderclap.

“What in the Maker’s name was that?”

The mage turned to Cullen, his face drained of color. He lifted his manacled wrists. “Release me!”

The magic seemed to burn beneath her skin and the woman started to convulse violently. As if on cue, the Breach raged in the sky. The grounds began to quake and they all fell to the floor. Green-fire and Fade-matter started to rain down torrentially. The others ducked their heads low as they screamed. Cullen was stunned.

The mage snapped him out of it, “QUICKLY!”

“Maker’s sake!” Cullen cursed. Terrified, he hurriedly crawled towards the mage and unclasped the runic manacles.

The mage immediately casted his spell. As soon as he calmed the magic on her hand, the green maw in the sky seemed to steady as well. Cullen's attention snapped to the young woman. She was still out, but a trail of blood ran down her nose and ears.

"What in the Maker's name…"

"They are correlated," the mage confirmed his thoughts.

"How?! Was she the cause of this?"

"Her involvement is apparent."

Without further ado, Cullen unsheathed his sword.

"No!" The mage protested, shielding her from him. "She is our only lead. If you kill her, we may very well lose our chance of sealing the Breach!"

"Or her death could potentially end it!"

A look of unbridled disgust crossed the mage's face and he spat, "Of course. A brute could only come up with a brutal solution."

Cullen's gaze drifted down again to the unconscious woman. With her eyes closed she looked as innocent as could be.

_The lone survivor._

_A suspect._

Their argument was cut short as another loud rip screeched around them. They unsheathed their blades.

“Another Rift!” Belinda hollered.

Without asking for his permission, the mage lifted the young woman on his arms. Just as well, they could discuss what happens after they survive this ambush.

The mage barked, "We must retreat!"

_You don't have to tell me twice._

“To me!” Cullen raised his sword high.

They regrouped. But this time, the Rifts didn't wait for long. It pushed demons out of the depths of its gutters three at a time.

"They just keep coming!" the knight cried.

_Maker have mercy!_

Luckily, the path Belinda had earlier purged remained stable and free of Rifts. It was their only pathway.

"Peel!" Cullen ordered, signaling Belinda and the mage to go ahead, as he and the knight covered their backs with swords and arrows from their shortbows.

They hurriedly ran, slashing and casting their way across the host of weaker wraiths and demons, while Cullen and the knight made quick work of those who followed then. At their relatively safe and clear distance, he heard Belinda shouted, "Peel!" They were now secured and ready to cover them back. Now was their chance.

Cullen and the knight made their way, lacerating the demons that managed to get close. But then, he felt a sharp electric current graze their back and he swallowed. The ground trembled as something large trailed at their rear. A menacing laugh chilled all the blood in his veins. Without looking back, he recognized what kind of demon now prowled behind them.

"AAAAAAAAAAHHH!!!"

"Robert!" Cullen swiveled.

But the knight was caught by an electric whip and was burned from his ankle up. The smell of charred flesh almost made Cullen gag. Still, he held on to his arm, while the demon pulled playfully at the other end.

"Robert!"

He was crying in pain, and he screamed, "Go, go! L-Leave me!"

"No!"

The whip burned through his flesh and the demon's laughter grew. Cullen pulled and tried to lift him. _Maker, damn it!_ But when he thought they were done for, a shard of ice arrowed through the demon and its gleeful howl ceased.

"Run!" The mage shouted at his side.

Cullen was surprised. He came back for them.

"What about the woman?"

"Now's not the time for that," the mage admonished. "Go!"

Cullen didn't look back as he hurriedly carried Robert through. He saw Belinda ahead, watching out for the woman as she cleansed the small space they occupied. Shades crawled and scratched, but Belinda made a quick work of them. Then, Cullen felt his burden lifted when the mage caught up with him and Robert.

He grasped Cullen's back, "Hold tight. And please, refrain from retching."

"What-"

And with one step, the world around him disappeared and when he blinked, Cullen found himself beside Belinda. Then his world started to spin. The mage steadied him, no doubt with another spell.

"We must hurry!" the mage didn't look at them as he cast bolt after bolt of arcane fire behind.

Lifting Robert along his shoulders, Cullen was able to free his sword arm. Belinda replicated his actions with the survivor. Cullen eyed the unconscious woman briefly. She was still breathing. _Good._

The mage rained spell after spell as legion of demons continued to swarm them. A few popped up in front of Cullen and he managed to defend himself and his ward. But with the added weight, he was tiring too quickly. Cullen countered another swing, and yet he did not see the other one coming. The Terror demon shrieked and he momentarily lost his grip as incomprehensible fear afflicted him.

_This is it. I am done for._

But the claw grazed nothing but air and Cullen suddenly felt rejuvenated. His skin was covered by bluish light.

 _A barrier,_ Cullen realized.

He looked around and saw the mage blasted another demon down. Cullen nodded in thanks, although he wasn't certain if the mage caught it.

"We're almost at the courtyard!" Belinda exclaimed.

A despair demon hissed, swirling around and casting freezing magic all over. It placed itself in-between them and their exit. _Maker, blast this thing!_

Belinda looked weary. Cullen highly doubted she had any reserves left for a dispel and despair demons drain the Will out of anyone it came across. Cullen could certainly feel its effects against them.

But a rallying cry roused their hopes.

The other group had finally reached the temple and charged in from the other side. The tide of the battle had turned. Cullen could see Cassandra leading the melee party while Leliana and her agents protected their flanks with well-placed arrows.

"Cover me," the mage said to no one specifically, but they all heard him.

Without further delay, his hands crackled with magic, siphoning mana through the tears, he unleashed a tempest - a literal wall of lightning that caged and torched the demons caught within with arcing bolts. At the end, the entire floor looked like gallons of ink were spilled on them.

Cullen sighed in relief. They would all live for one more day.

***

Back at the forward camp, the nearest to the temple they could secure, Cullen decided to walk around the perimeter. There was the familiar rasping sound of the Veil weakening before it was torn into Rifts. The demons regained control of the ruins once more. He could hear the keening unholy sound of the herd. He could swear they were singing. It was a haunting music.

When he turned, he found the mage had the same idea. He was eyeing the temple as well, hands behind his back. Cullen saw the survivor being lifted onto a carriage to be secured back to Haven. Questions needed to be answered, and they needed her alive for that.

It would seem the mage alone knew how to calm the magic in her palm. _The Mark,_ Cassandra had called it.

A mark of what, exactly? Their destruction or their salvation?

Cullen decided to talk to him before he departed. The mage acknowledged his presence with a nod. They stood quietly for a time, it was Cullen who decided to break the ice.

"How was the survivor?"

"Unstable. But she'll live."

"How long?"

"Long enough, we hope."

Silence.

"Still thinking how it all happened?"

The mage eyed him sideways, then returned his attention to the ruined temple, "In a manner of speaking."

"Thank you," Cullen said after another beat of silence. "You saved our lives back there."

"We all needed each other."

"Regardless, I am grateful." Cullen scratched the back of his neck, "It was good to have you on our side, ma-" he cleared his throat, "... _Solas._ You were solid out there."

Solas studied him. After a while he nodded, "This is far from over."

Both of them looked up to the Breach then. _True, the trials are just starting._ But, there was a course of action now. Somewhere to start with. The darkness may still cloud their future, and yet… Cullen could see the ray of light peeking through the green cloud.

 _The dawn will come,_ Cullen was sure of it.


End file.
